The Bolingbroke Chit: A Regency Romance (20 page)

Suddenly, the world was too awful a place to exist—human interaction was too fraught, emotions were too fragile, misunderstandings were too easy—and Agatha wanted to run from the room as if chased by a fire-breathing dragon. The only thing that kept her rooted to the spot was concern for Vinnie’s feelings, for she knew the other woman would interpret her abrupt departure as a desire to separate herself from a growing scandal.

No doubt, several members of the
ton
had already done that. Perhaps nobody had given her the cut direct, but surely invitations had stopped arriving.

Determined to put her guest at ease, a novel experience for Lady Agony, Agatha asked about soil density, a concept devised by Miss Harlow to describe the compactness of a soil sample of which she’d heard her father speak admiringly. Agatha was not a devotee of drainage systems—indeed, she could not conceive of anyone feeling passionately about irrigation—but she listened politely as Vinnie explained the importance of accurate measures and even found herself interested in the challenges of attaining the right combination for optimal growth. There was enough in common between the mixing of paints and the mixing of soil for her to respect the process.

With Lord Bolingbroke’s interest in gardening, Agatha was adept at holding a thoughtful conversation on cultivation, but she had never exerted herself on anyone else’s behalf before. Conversing with Miss Harlow was not as easy as conversing with her father, but nor was it very difficult, and Agatha found with relief that the next half hour did not drag. Before she knew it, her visitor was rising to her feet to take her leave and appeared satisfied with her mission. She said as much on her way to the door, assuring Agatha of how pleased she was that there were no hard feelings between them.

Agatha, keenly aware of the hard feelings that should be between them, said with overbrightness, “There are few fences a filthy rag won’t mend.”

As soon as Vinnie left, Agatha returned to the drawing room and threw herself on the divan, thoroughly exhausted by the effort of appearing to be a good person.

She was not a good person. She was a horrible person, and she deserved whatever evil thing happened to her on account of her horribleness. She had scarcely concluded that thought when Gregson announced she had another visitor.

Two visitors in one day was unheard of for Lady Agony, and even Gregson looked confused by the development.

“Who?” she asked, opening one eye. She knew it was undignified to address the butler from a supine position on the cushion, but she wasn’t ready to sit up yet. The interview with Miss Harlow had been so emotionally grueling, she doubted she would ever be ready to sit up.

“Mr. Luther Townshend,” he said.

“He is an associate of my father’s from the horticultural society,” she said, relieved to discover she wouldn’t have to move just yet. “Please inform Lord Bolingbroke that Mr. Townshend is here to see him.”

“I would, my lady, except Mr. Townshend asked for you,” Gregson said.

She tilted her head and looked at him askance. “That is odd.”

“I agree, which is why I asked Mr. Townshend twice to confirm. He insists that he’d like to speak with you.”

Sighing deeply, Agatha reached for the back of the divan and reluctantly pulled herself into sitting position. “All right,” she said, unable to imagine what business the gentleman could have with her. Although she had never attended a single meeting of the British Horticultural Society, she knew Townshend’s temperament by reputation, for he was, according to her father, a man given equally to bellicosity and conciliation. As the deputy director of Kew Gardens, he was accustomed to issuing orders to dozens of minions and he sometimes forgot that his fellow members were not likewise obliged to comply with his every request, a situation that frequently led to angry outbursts immediately followed by earnest apologies. “Please give me a minute to gather my thoughts before sending him in. And ask Mrs. Brookner to bring a fresh pot of tea.”

He nodded his head obligingly, collected the tray of tea and left Agatha to puzzle over Mr. Townshend’s unprecedented interest in her as she straightened her disheveled appearance. She was still smoothing the wrinkles from her dress when Gregson showed Mr. Townshend in. For a man reportedly given to fits of anger, he had, she thought, a rather benign grandfatherly look about him: tufts of gray hair, a generous middle, droopy cheeks.

With her reputation as a conversational vortex, Lady Agatha had very few callers and she was at a loss as to how to receive one of her father’s associates. She would be respectful, of course, out of deference to Lord Bolingbroke, but she did not relish the idea of having to come up with topics of conversation. She had just spent an hour closeted with Miss Lavinia Harlow. How much small talk was one young lady required to make?

Truly, if this constant stream of visitors was what having a real season was like, she was vastly relieved to have never made the effort.

Plastering a smile on her face, which surely looked as false as it felt, she greeted Mr. Townshend forthrightly. “I am surprised by your intent in asking for me. Are you sure you would not rather see my father?”

Mr. Townshend’s eyes glowed with startling fierceness as he looked down at her from his superior height and said, “No, absolutely not. I’ve got the right person.”

Unsettled by the intensity of his gaze, for it seemed to hint at some sort of romantic interest, she told herself not to be absurd and indicated the armchair adjacent to the sofa. “Please sit down. The housekeeper is bringing tea, although please don’t feel that you must stay for a cup.”

“I appreciate your directness, Lady Agatha, and will be direct in return,” he said, as he sat down. “I admire your work as a caricaturist and look forward to continuing our association.”

Agatha’s heart dropped to her toes. Swiftly, like a rock falling from the roof of a building, it plummeted to the floor with determined velocity. She felt her breath leave her body, as if her chest had been pummeled by a great force. The hum began in her ears again as her left hand started to tremble.

She pressed against the arm of the sofa to still the movement as she mustered a look of feigned amusement. “How very droll you are, Mr. Townshend,” she said, her voice as calm as a placid pond. In this moment when it mattered the most, a moment she had been dreading for three years, even as she thought it would never come, she managed to control herself. “Now do please tell me how I can help you. Does it concern my father? I know he can be stubborn on certain matters, but he’s never impervious to reason. I’m sure together we can win him over.”

“Admirable attempt, my lady,” he said warmly, “although not quite the right approach to throw me off the scent. If I were not already certain I had the correct person, your agreeableness would confirm my suspicions. Were you not Mr. Holyroodhouse, you would have said something cutting and had me thrown out. Your reputation as Lady Agony precedes you.”

Hearing Mr. Holyroodhouse’s name spoken aloud in the refined confines of Lady Bolingbroke’s drawing room caused Agatha’s arm to quiver again, and she ruthlessly stifled it by pressing more firmly against it. “I am merely extending the courtesy owed to you as a friend of my father’s, but if you’d like for me to revert to my usual manners, I’d be more than delighted to toss you out on your ear. Shall I ring the bell now?”

Mr. Townshend laughed. “Yes, yes, deny away. Of course you must. But do be quick about it, as we are wasting valuable time. Here,” he said, pulling a folded sheet of paper out of his pocket, “is my idea for our next salvo. I think it’s rather clever myself.”

Agatha’s horror at being unmasked was so profound, she did not pause to wonder at his motives for seeking her out. She thought only of her parents’ reactions—her mother’s fury, her father’s shocked disappointment—and accepted the sheet of paper with pronounced indifference. It was only the expression of unadulterated glee on his face that induced her to actually look down. She noticed immediately that it was a drawing, but it took her a few extra seconds to realize what she was seeing. It was not only Mr. Townshend’s limited skill that made comprehension difficult, but also the wild premise of the cartoon, which depicted Miss Lavinia Harlow applying a solution of weed killer to a tulip that looked suspiciously like Sir Waldo Windbourne.

To give herself time to think, she pulled her brows together as if seriously considering the drawing. She tilted her head at what she supposed was a thoughtful angle and said, “Hmmm.”

Next to her, Townshend practically purred in delight.

The image explained a lot. Townshend was clearly her mysterious letter writer, and delighted with the results from their first collaboration, he was eager to work on their next. She didn’t understand everything, of course, such as why he was set on ruining Vinnie and how he discovered her identity.

Impatient with her silence, he said, “It’s brilliant, isn’t it? It keeps to a theme while suggesting all is not as it seems.”

Agatha stared at him, aghast. Brilliant? He thought this amateurish piece of drivel was brilliant? By what impossibly low standard did he measure brilliance? “It says weed killer,” she observed.

“Yes,” he agreed cheerfully.

“Right there,” she said, pointing to the words written on the spray bottle the poorly drawn Miss Harlow held. “You wrote out
weed killer
in large capital letters.”

Unaware of her censure, he said, “Exactly. So there can be no mistake.”

She stared at him in disgust, amazed at his obliviousness. He’d somehow managed to figure out her secret identity, something nobody else had accomplished, and yet he was clearly an idiot. “No self-respecting caricaturist spells out the elements of a drawing at all, let alone in large capital letters. It’s lazy and sloppy and so unsubtle, you might as well write, ‘This is funny’ across the bottom. I’m appalled that you think I would ruin my reputation as a skilled and insightful satirist with such incompetence. It’s time for you to leave.”

Agatha didn’t think it would be that easy to get rid of him, and although she wasn’t surprised that he remained firmly seated in the armchair, she was somewhat taken aback when he countered her criticism. “That is your opinion,” he said stiffly, “and I respectfully disagree.”

She snorted in disgust. Respectfully disagree with her? He was a gardener, an administrator, a glorified secretary with a staff of lackeys too intimidated to question his authority. Well, she wasn’t a lackey and she wasn’t intimidated.

“You have not earned the privilege of disagreeing with me,” she announced firmly, as the outrage poured through her. “You have neither the experience nor the skill to assess the components of successful satire. You are just a doodler who thinks he’s clever. Yes, I am Mr. Holyroodhouse, and I don’t know why you wasted your time coming here, because I will not do anything you ask. You may leave now before I decide to draw a caricature suggesting you killed Sir Waldo and I will not have to use large capital letters to make my point.”

So saying, she marched to the door and held it open.

“Sit down!” Townshend barked, his eyes blazing hotly, for her name calling had turned his enthusiasm into anger. “We
will
work together despite artistic differences because I know who you are and one word from me will destroy your reputation so thoroughly your children’s children will have to reside on the northern edge of Yorkshire lest they find themselves run out of London for being descendants of yours. Now let us come to terms and I will remove myself from your charming company.”

Townshend did not have to make the threat for Agatha to know what was at stake, and she returned to the sofa without speaking.

Taking a deep breath, the deputy director of Kew said, “I think it’s reasonable to conclude that your squeamishness with the assignment affects your view of my drawing. When I began our association, I had no idea Mr. Holyroodhouse was a woman and I would never have established the connection had I known. That said, I cannot alter the fact of your sex and am forced to deal with you as you are. To that end, I hope it will ease your delicate sensibilities when I assure you Miss Harlow is guilty of this heinous act. If you understood how guilty she was, you would have no qualms about writing
weed killer
on the bottle. I believe Shakespeare used a similar device in
Hamlet
and nobody cried amateur when the asp appeared.”

Agatha was no simpleton and she readily grasped the seriousness of her situation, but that did not stop her from appreciating its humor as well. Having never regretted her lack of friends, she suddenly felt the absence as she realized she had nobody with whom to share Townshend’s outstanding peevishness. She immediately thought of Addleson and knew he would get no small enjoyment out of Townshend’s insistence that his blunt hand was as subtle as Shakespeare’s.

“There is no need to be squeamish, I assure you,” he announced with authority. “I am far too honorable to make any charge, let alone one so severe, against an innocent woman, and we are, I believe, in the closing phase of our campaign. Your first drawing, which was quite good, by the way—not what I had in mind, but certainly effective in its own way—has made inroads into Miss Harlow’s spotless reputation. People are starting to look at her as the manipulative beast she is. Our next move is to print a rendition of the drawing I’ve presented to you, the satire of which, as we discussed, is more sophisticated than your feminine mind can grasp. That cartoon will destroy what is left of Miss Harlow’s good name and our association will be at an end.”