The Bolingbroke Chit: A Regency Romance (21 page)

As he spoke, Agatha decided it was not his continued insistence that his facile drawing was brilliant that convinced her he was disturbed, though that did seem to indicate an unbalanced mind, but his assertion that Miss Lavinia Harlow was a manipulative beast. After her experience with Viscount Addleson, she was willing to admit her ability to see below the surface wasn’t as highly developed as she’d supposed, but nor was it entirely nonfunctioning. Vinnie Harlow, with her filthy rag of a gift, was not evil. She may not be altogether good, for nobody was, but she was not the dyed-in-the-wool villain Mr. Townshend believed her to be.

Without question, there was a story to be uncovered, some sequence of events that explained his vehement dislike of the mild-mannered beauty. Considering the tenor of his wrath, she concluded that the matter in question had not been resolved in his favor. His mission was one of revenge, not justice.

If she was going to extricate herself from this scrape, she would first need to gather information about Mr. Townshend, for surely he had some weakness she could exploit. Everyone, no matter how seemingly invulnerable, had a fault that would lead to their downfall. Achilles’ was his heel; hers was her painting. She would find Mr. Townshend’s. The place to start was his disagreement with Miss Harlow, for discovering the root of his hatred would almost certainly reveal important information.

Before she could begin her investigation, she had to extricate herself from this conversation. “Very well, Mr. Townshend,” she said, “I will comply with your request, except that you must give me time to come up with an alternate idea. I would sooner be exposed as the infamous Mr. Holyroodhouse than the author of such an amateurish drawing.”

Townshend opened his mouth as if to protest, for how could he let such an insulting characterization of his work stand but then thought better of continuing the argument. His goal was the destruction of Miss Harlow, not establishing aesthetic dominance over Lady Agatha. “Very well, my dear, I agree to your terms. You have three days to come up with an alternate idea. If I don’t see publication of the cartoon by Thursday, I will announce your true identity at Lord Kendrick’s ball. It is meant to be a festive affair, to celebrate the many years his lordship has been happily married to Lady Kendrick, and no doubt the revelation of your secret identity would add an extra dash of felicity.”

Seventy-two hours was a meager allotment for ascertaining every pertinent detail of another person’s life, but it was more than enough time for Mr. Holyroodhouse to conceive and execute a drawing. “Let us say four days, for I cannot guarantee the efficiency of Mrs. Biddle’s shop. She works with several caricaturists and must answer to their demands as well.”

Mr. Townshend wrinkled his forehead, as if suspecting a trick, and Agatha, sensing his reluctance, added, “Mrs. Compton is hosting a musicale on Friday and no doubt the revelation of my secret identity would add more than a dash of felicity to an otherwise tedious affair.”

Hearing his own reasoning repeated back to him made its logic irrefutable, and he agreed to her proposal. Satisfied with the interview, he stood up to leave. “I am delighted you have decided to be so reasonable, Lady Agatha,” he announced agreeably. “I’ve always found your father to be a pleasant and congenial man and it’s lovely to see those traits in his child. Needless to say, we will keep this matter between ourselves. I’m sure Lord Bolingbroke would be as surprised as I was to learn Mr. Holyroodhouse’s true name.”

Although she was eager to see him leave, Agatha could not help extending the conversation, for there was one piece of information she had to know. “How
did
you learn my name, Mr. Townshend? I have quite an elaborate system in place to protect it.”

“Yes, leaving messages under the doormat was quite clever and my man watched the building for several days before he figured out how you and Mrs. Biddle were communicating. Even then, he found it impossible to figure out who was collecting the letters. Then yesterday, Mrs. Biddle, in what appeared to be indecent haste to deliver a very important message, broke protocol and presented the note directly to Mr. Floris’s assistant, Mr. Smith. He in turn delivered it posthaste to his daughter, who works in this house as your lady’s maid. I will confess I considered for a moment the possibility of Ellen Smith as Mr. Holyroodhouse but then dismissed it as far too unlikely. Your admission confirmed it, but do not tease yourself that you gave the secret away, for I had only the tiniest speck of doubt.”

Agatha smiled, as if unperturbed by this explanation, but silently she fumed over the unlikely sequence of events. If Viscount Addleson had not made his preposterously generous offer for another drawing, Mrs. Biddle would not have been so overcome by avarice as to dash over to Jermyn Street and give away the game. How the shop owner knew of Mr. Floris and his location was another troubling matter. Apparently, her elaborate system was not nearly as intricate as she’d thought.

Deciding no verbal response was necessary, Agatha merely nodded in acknowledgment and escorted Townshend to the door. He paused with his hand on the knob while he examined her thoughtfully.

“I am in earnest, Lady Agatha,” he said amiably, as if commenting on the weather rather than reiterating a threat. “I will expose you to society if you don’t comply with my request. No doubt you think you are very clever and will find a way to outmaneuver me. The effort is charming but futile, for, I assure you, no woman has ever bested me and no woman ever shall.”

The arrogance of the statement begged for a reply, but Agatha knew better than to provoke him and merely nodded again. Townshend, mistaking diplomatic silence for female compliance, preened with satisfaction at her ready acquiescence. “I look forward to our collaboration.”

“As do I,” she said with just enough sincerity to cause him to smile.

With a tip of his hat, Townshend took his leave, and Agatha carefully studied his departing frame as it left her home. What a repellent human being.

Now that he was gone, the panic she had managed to control during their interview overtook her and her left hand began to tremble in earnest. She had to find a way to get out from under his thumb. She simply
had
to. Otherwise she would be left with a set of impossible choices: ruin her own reputation or ruin the reputation of an innocent woman.

If she had no alternative, if every attempt to defeat Townshend came to naught, she would chose the former. Of course she would, for she would not be able to live with herself if she caused Vinnie further damage. It wasn’t a matter of doing what was right; it was a matter of doing what was bearable.

And yet even as she settled on her decision, she felt the insidious worm of cowardice coiling through her soul. Her own ruin would be complete and irrevocable. Once revealed as Mr. Holyroodhouse, she would be beyond redemption, a pariah who had betrayed her own kind. She would not be able to brazen it out or laugh off the episode as a very good lark. She would simply cease to exist in the eyes of the
beau monde.

The thought, to her surprise, was utterly intolerable. Yes, she loathed the obligations of society and the demands they made on her time, but now, as she stood on the edge of exile—on the edge, it would seem, of getting everything she had ever wanted—she realized she did not want it at all. She did not relish having to interact with other human beings, but the prospect of being cut off from them entirely felt more lonely than she could bear. There was a value, she’d discovered, in being among one’s peers.

In comparison to banishment, Vinnie’s punishment would be mild, for the accusation would always remain speculative. There was no proving or disproving the charge of murder. The Bow Street Runners were not going to dig up the corpse of Sir Waldo Windbourne and examine it for suspicious marks. Agatha did not know if posthumous study of a body was possible, but even if it was, nobody would order such an extreme undertaking based on a few renderings of an anonymous artist.

Vinnie might be made uncomfortable by the publication of another drawing—a few sticklers might give her the cut direct, some high-minded hostesses might exclude her from their guest lists—but on the whole her life would proceed unchanged. At worst, her fiancé, Huntly, whom Vinnie herself described as impeccably courteous, might decide he could not abide by the gossip and end their arrangement. Such a consequence would be regrettable, of course, but it did not equal the pain of banishment from polite society. And, truly, was it not better for a lady to discover the paltriness of her true love’s regard before she said her vows?

In a few months’ time, the chatter would die down and Vinnie’s life would return to normal. Agatha’s never would.

Disgusted by these thoughts and angry at herself for having them, Agatha struck her fist against the door frame, which had the immediate effect of bruising her knuckles. Excellent, she thought, nursing her right hand. Now she was disgusted, angry and in pain—an ideal combination for lucid thinking.

Don’t forget panicked, she reminded herself grimly. One hand hurt; the other hand trembled.

Action was required—immediate, decisive, inexorable action—but nothing could be done until she cleared her head. Fear and repulsion did not oil the tricky machinery of the mind. The only thing that ordered her brain was drawing, so she presented herself to her studio at once and picked up her sketch book. Her fingers ached as she clutched the pen, but rather than ring for Ellen to bring a cold compress, she decided to suffer the discomfort as the well-deserved consequence of foolish behavior. But it was not the blow to the door frame that she condemned but her entire history as Mr. Holyroodhouse. How idiotic it seemed to her now that she’d ever believed she would be able to get away with the ruse indefinitely, and the throbbing in her hand, a minor sting compared with the pain her soul suffered, felt symbolic of the entire calamity. She had caused her own wounds. To her hand and to her soul—she had inflicted the damage. Vinnie had not.

Briefly, Agatha closed her eyes and for a moment she could see the entire scene clearly: Townshend prostrate on the floor, his nose pressed into the tiles of the Duke of Trent’s conservatory; Miss Lavinia Harlow sitting on his back, her eyes bright as she flipped through the British Horticultural Society’s bylaws; and the caption that took the triumph out of Townshend’s infuriating boast: “No woman has ever bested me and no woman ever shall.”

As she drew, Agatha’s sense of helplessness gave way to feelings of competence and control. Townshend had been bested once, which meant it could be done, and something that could be done once, could be done again. Of that, she was certain. The key was Miss Harlow’s entry into the horticultural society, for it was the most logical way for her to have earned the detestable gentleman’s enmity. She recalled the deal the Harlow sisters had struck for her father’s support—two outings to make Lady Agony fashionable—and wondered if Townshend had likewise been approached. The existence of that known agreement indicated an attempt to influence the opinions of the voting members. Perhaps where a benign exchange could not be made, a different sort of pressure was applied.

It seemed highly unlikely that the affable Miss Harlow had blackmailed the prickly Mr. Townshend, yet Agatha, unable to think of a better explanation, settled on that angle as the best one to investigate. The obvious place to start was at the scene of the crime itself, for the British Horticultural Society kept impeccable records of its proceedings. All she had to do was convince the manager of the society’s business affairs to let her take a look at the record of its recent meetings.

Dealing with Mr. Berry would be tricky, for she knew him to be a kind but straitlaced individual who passionately guarded the dignity of the organization that employed him. She could not simply walk through the front door and as the daughter of Lord Bolingbroke request to see the private accounts. Not only would Mr. Berry emphatically deny her request, but he would most likely report her unusual behavior to her father. Needless to say, that occurrence must be avoided at all costs.

The only thing for it was to pay the call dressed as someone else. She could not imagine any lady for whom Mr. Berry would open the society’s books, for he was far too conservative in his judgments to think a female worthy of their study. No, she would have to adopt the identity of a gentleman in order to get the information, but what gentleman could it be? Someone Mr. Berry respected but was not too familiar with to notice the discrepancy in his appearance.

Mr. Petrie, she thought with excitement. He was an honored guest of the horticultural society. Surely, his request to see the minutes would be granted without hesitation.

No sooner had she conceived of the idea than she dismissed it, for not only was the American’s physical appearance impossible for her to re-create—he towered over her from an unnatural height—he wasn’t even in London at the moment. The day before, he had left for Bath to meet with a publisher and would not return for five more days.

Borrowing Mr. Petrie’s identity was not an option, but the visiting naturalist could still be of use, for there was his assistant, Mr. Clemmons, to consider. The gentleman had been too sick to travel on the same ship as his employer, but that didn’t mean he could not have recovered in time to board the next steamer to London. Charged with his first duty since arriving, Clemmons could present himself at the offices of the horticultural society and request access to its private documents in a mission to discover information. Mr. Petrie wanted to set up an analogous organization in the colonies and tasked him with discovering as much as possible about the well-run institution. No doubt that commendatory undertaking would gratify Mr. Berry’s ego.