The Bolingbroke Chit: A Regency Romance (2 page)

“It appears to be a cosmetic choice, although it is a case of employing a lion to get rid of a dog,” Agatha explained as she returned the spectacles to her mother.

“I think he looks very well,” Lady Bolingbroke observed.

“A moment ago, you said he was sickly,” Agatha felt compelled to point out, even though such bold about-faces were commonplace for her mother, who regularly issued statements that contradicted the ones that immediately came before.

“Sickly becomes him,” Lady Bolingbroke explained as she raised the glasses to her eyes. “Perhaps he will start a fashion, and applying face powder will become all the crack. It could be delightful.”

“And you can lead the revival of powdered wigs,” her daughter suggested. “Several relics of my grandfather’s are moldering in the attics.”

Lady Bolingbroke dismissed this proposal as manifestly absurd, for she herself was not what one would call an arbiter of style. “But if a true arbiter of style should take up the mantle, I would gladly follow.”

Agatha knew this only too well, as her mother gleefully fell in line with all the dictates of fashion, no matter how ridiculous or physically inconvenient. Just that afternoon, she could be seen strolling the lanes of Hyde Park in a bonnet piled so high with silk ribbons, ruched taffeta and ostrich plumes, she could barely hold her head up. Several times, she had to discreetly grip the hat with her left hand to alleviate the pressure on her neck, which felt as if it were bending like an old tree branch. Despite the discomfort, she maintained a spirited conversation with Lady Tilby and refused to admit to any irritation.

Although her mother hid her obstinacy behind an ingratiating smile, she was just as strong-minded as her offspring and would not give up until Agatha was firmly tethered to a gentleman of respectable breeding. Rather than fly up into the boughs, Agatha calmly went where she was bid and dampened the proceedings as best she could. Her hope was that people would stop inviting her places, but so far that desire had proven futile, as evidenced by that evening’s invitation to view
The Merchant of Venice
with the Duchess of Trent. She didn’t know how Lady Bolingbroke managed to arrange the outing—as far as she knew, neither of her parents counted either the duke or his wife among their intimates—but her mother was very pleased with the coup and could not contain her excitement. Indeed, she had talked of nothing else for a week.

For her part, Agatha had been dreading the excursion, for she considered the new Duchess of Trent to be an entirely insufferable creature. Before marriage elevated her to the realm of respectability, Miss Emma Harlow—or the Harlow Hoyden, as she was more commonly known—indulged in a series of reckless larks that should have by rights ended in her total disgrace at best and her utter ruin at worst. Among her most outlandish exploits was a curricle race from London to Newmarket to break Sir Leopold’s long-standing record by more than two minutes.

Although Agatha had never actually met the young lady in question, she knew her to be naïve, arrogant, childish and petulant and believed she rightly deserved whatever comeuppance she got. For years, the Harlow Hoyden had managed to skirt the line of propriety, somehow always ending up on just the right side of the border. Her recent wedding to the very worthy and well-regarded Duke of Trent had secured her place among the
ton
in some quarters—people such as Lady Bolingbroke were happy to forgive a duchess anything—and the marriage struck Agatha as a fitting end for the impertinent miss. The illustrious gentleman was not known for his sense of humor or easygoing manner and was in fact thought to be stiff and toplofty by those who knew him best. Surely, marriage to such an upstanding gentleman would prove stifling and chastening to a woman of high spirits.

When the Harlow Hoyden arrived at her theater box a few minutes later, however, she did not appear to be oppressed by her decorous marriage. If anything, she seemed to glow with good humor, as did her sister, Lavinia Harlow, who, as her twin, shared her sleek blond hair and peaches-and-cream complexion. Agatha, who had never aspired to beauty, only to be left alone to pursue her art, did not resent the women for their lovely appearance. Rather, she resented them for their liveliness and their relentless enthusiasm and the way they seemed to find everything highly amusing. Their unfailing cheerfulness was so overwhelming, Agatha couldn’t think of a single deflating thing to say.

And yet
she
was considered the wet blanket!

“
The Merchant of Venice
is one of my favorite plays,” the Duchess of Trent announced as she glanced down at the pit, then across it to the boxes opposite, several of which were still filling with arriving theatergoers. The curtain would not rise for another twenty or so minutes. “I’m desolate to have missed Kean’s performance as Shylock. By all reports, it was remarkable.”

“Undeniably, yes,” Lady Bolingbroke rushed to assure her. “I was fortunate enough to have seen his performance and it had a profound influence on me.”

Hearing this review, which did not comply with the original one given on the night of the performance—or, rather, in the middle of the performance—Agatha said, “It is true. Mama demanded a pound of flesh from her neighbor, whose infernal cough—I do believe that’s how you described it, though perhaps you said
damnable
—made it impossible for her to hear any of Mr. Kean’s speeches, which she felt were a trifle overdone in their inflexible malignity, creating such an unpleasant theater-going experience that she swore never to return.”

“Yet here we are,” her mother said without a trace of embarrassment, “returned to the scene of the crime, as it were. I trust everyone is in fine respiratory health? To be completely honest, I myself felt a dry tickle at the back of my throat around nuncheon today, but I had a cup of tea with honey and it immediately passed.”

“Well, that is a relief,” her daughter said, “for I would have been wretched if we had to cancel. I’ve been looking forward to this evening with particular anticipation.”

The inflection in her voice left everyone in the box with little doubt as to the true state of her desolation, but no one chose to remark on it. Instead, the duchess inquired about Lord Bolingbroke’s health. “I trust he suffered no ill effects from last night’s long meeting of the British Horticultural Society. It took quite a while for Vinnie’s membership to be approved.”

At the mention of her father’s beloved organization, in which a group of grown men—no, not just men now, for as the Harlow Hoyden had observed, her sister now ranked among them—met regularly to discuss the trivial matter of gardening, Agatha rolled her eyes. Almost all of her parents’ conversation consisted of her father lecturing her mother on how to best cultivate flowers. Although Lady Bolingbroke’s interest in horticulture extended only to ensuring that the bouquet in the drawing room did not clash with the drapes, she always listened to these drawn-out speeches as if she found the information to be the most engrossing she had ever encountered. She considered it her duty as a wife to provide her husband with an attentive ear, even if her spouse could not provide her with attention-worthy material.

This slavish devotion to tedious oration was another reason Lady Agatha discouraged suitors.

“He was a little shocked by the result of the vote to admit Miss Harlow, for he did not think her membership application would be approved,” Lady Bolingbroke admitted with an apologetic glance at the duchess’s sister. “Like most men of his ilk, Lord Bolingbroke does not appreciate the value of change and allowing a woman into the august society is a rather large change. However, now that the watershed event has taken place, he’s determined to put a brave face on it and accord Miss Harlow all the respect she deserves as a fellow member of the society.”

“How very broad-minded of him,” the duchess said with an ironic grin. “I’m sure Vinnie appreciates his forbearance.”

Having followed Miss Harlow’s candidacy, which had caused quite a stir after a wager was placed in the betting book at Brooks’s that she would not succeed in her goal, Agatha knew how ardently the Duchess of Trent supported her sister’s cause and wasn’t at all surprised by the archness in her tone. That the other Harlow girl needed her twin’s ardent support was not in doubt, for the young woman had scandalized the
ton
with her determination to win entrée into the masculine domain. A more modest lady would have immediately declined the invitation, which had clearly been issued as a joke, but Vinnie Harlow used it as an opportunity to achieve her true goal: nabbing a husband. Everyone knew she was dangling after Felix Dryden, Marquess of Huntly, the famous naturalist who had recently returned from a two-year expedition to the South Seas. Her pursuit of such an eligible bachelor—he had wealth, good looks and a quick wit—would be unremarkable save for the fact that she had only just emerged from deep mourning for her fiancé, Sir Waldo Windbourne. The flagrant lack of respect for a man whose life had been tragically cut short offended all proper feeling.

Ordinarily, Agatha’s supply of proper feeling ran short, a circumstance her mother frequently deplored as unnatural, but on the matter of Miss Lavinia Harlow and her hoydenish sister, she had a substantial surplus. She couldn’t say why exactly the behavior of the two girls affronted her so much, but there was something about them that set her teeth on edge.

To be fair, Agatha had never actually paid much heed to Vinnie, for she had always seemed like the sensible twin, complying with the strictures of society without complaint like any proper young lady. But her zealous resolve to gain membership to the British Horticultural Society proved she was cut from the same cloth as her sister.

“Oh, but I
do
appreciate his forbearance,” Miss Harlow insisted now with so much humility Agatha had little recourse but to doubt her sincerity. “I did not expect to gain admittance to such a prestigious organization and fully anticipate there will be a period of adjustment for everyone. I’m grateful for all the support I can get.”

Just as Miss Harlow uttered the word
support,
reinforcements arrived in the form of Sir Charles Burton and the Earl of Moray, two members of the horticultural society who appeared to require no period of adjustment in accepting a woman among their ranks. The earl, in particular, seemed delighted with the turn of events and pledged to guide Miss Harlow through her first meeting, which would coincide with an exciting lecture from an American naturalist who would arrive from New York on the morrow.

Sir Charles applauded his friend’s generous offer and urged Miss Harlow to accept it. “We in the society take much pride in our protocols, of which we have dozens to provide order and efficiency. I don’t doubt a young lady such as yourself might get confused trying to follow all of the rules, and Moray can be relied upon to ably translate complex ideas into simple terms. I will also be on hand to help make your first meeting a pleasant experience.”

“I cannot imagine a more gracious offer,” Miss Harlow said. “Of course I’m happy to accept. Thank you.”

“Naturally, my sister is pleased to return the favor, for she’s quite adept at understanding complex ideas, as well. Just this afternoon, in fact, she perfected her invention of the Brill Method Improvised Elasticized Hose,” the duchess explained. Then she looked at the two peers with bright blue eyes wide with innocent curiosity. “What devices have you gentlemen recently invented?”

Sir Charles coughed awkwardly while the earl pulled out his fob and pointed to a knot securing the red-and-gold ribbon to his watch. “This bow is of my own creation. I call it the Moray Maneuver. If you like, I shall demonstrate it for you.”

The duchess was saved from responding by the arrival of Mr. Edward Abingdon, yet another member of the British Horticultural Society who felt compelled to assure Miss Harlow of her welcome.

Observing the scene, Agatha couldn’t decide if she was amused or disgusted. It was embarrassing to witness so many accomplished gentlemen—Mr. Abingdon, for example, was a noted whipster—making a cake of themselves over an assertive female who had elbowed her way into their private club. What flattery! What fawning! What absurd currying of favor!

Truly, she’d never seen anything like it.

At the same time, however, there was something irrefutably hilarious about watching her father’s beloved and esteemed institution devolve into a miniature marriage mart for the use and benefit of Miss Lavinia Harlow. The British Horticultural Society was clearly prime husband-hunting ground, and Agatha could not entirely blame Miss Harlow for working so tirelessly to gain entry into it. She was, after all, four-and-twenty years old and had already lost one fiancé to an unfortunate accident—suffocated by his own corset, if the rumors were to be believed. A woman of her advanced years could not have many options left, especially if she had scholarly interests such as inventing things. Yet now, suddenly, her life was rife with possibilities, for if she failed to catch the Marquess of Huntly, the Earl of Moray seemed happy to impale himself on the hook.

If Lady Bolingbroke had realized the society’s potential for securing a spouse, she would have petitioned for her daughter’s inclusion years ago.

Agatha’s gaze sharpened as an image took form in her mind. She pictured the society’s stately lecture hall, where the great Sir Joseph Banks himself once gave a presentation on the uses of eucalyptus, redecorated to look like Almack’s. Amid the crystal chandeliers, large wall mirrors and orchestra, she envisioned the twenty-six members of the society tripping over each other to sign Miss Harlow’s dance card.