The Bolingbroke Chit: A Regency Romance (22 page)

Excited by her idea, Agatha began working on the most daunting aspect of the subterfuge: imitating the American accent. As a gently bred young lady and a skilled artist, she had never had cause to adopt a foreign accent and had no knowledge of the basics. It would be highly irregular if she hired an actress to tutor her—time consuming, as well, for how would she find this helpful thespian—so she contented herself with copying Mr. Petrie’s peculiar way of pronouncing words. The key, she realized, was to overproduce her Rs and to flatten her vowels.

Methodically, she worked, honing her accent while adding features to Mr. Townshend’s surly face. She exaggerated his eyebrows and doubled the weight of his jowls. She did several versions of Vinnie’s expression, finally setting her face into a look of complete indifference, as if she were entirely unaware that the comfortable chair upon which she sat was the humiliated figure of Luther Townshend.

She toiled diligently for almost three hours, impatiently shrugging off Ellen when the maid appeared to announce dinner, and when Agatha finished her drawing, she not only had an acerbic lampoon of Mr. Townshend’s vanity but a plan to free herself from it as well.

Chapter Nine

Although Viscount Addleson
did not frequently decide to drop family members, as he had so few of them whom he liked, he realized as Edward Abingdon stopped his curricle in front of the British Horticultural Society that he had no choice but to ruthlessly remove his cousin from his life.

“I have nothing but respect for your passion for horticulture, as I believe it’s important for a young gentleman to care strongly for something as a blind against cynicism. Look at me, I have given my life over to the pursuit of the perfect waistcoat and I assure you it has not been in vain, for every day I grow a little bit closer to attaining my goal,” Addleson explained reasonably. “But your insistence that I share your passion is intolerable and, since you are not my heir, as that distinction belongs to a dull-witted squire whose interest in waistcoats is nonexistent, I feel no compunction in permanently parting ways.”

His cousin laughed as if a cruel threat had not just been issued. “This stop will only take a moment, and then we shall continue to Gentleman Jackson’s salon. I assure you, our appointment there is real and not a fiction I created to lure you here. Despite what you fear, I’m not lobbying for your inclusion in the horticultural society. I cannot think of a worse circumstance than to be trapped in a meeting hall with you. Now do let’s step inside so that I may complete my business swiftly and we can be on our way.”

Addleson continued to stare at Edward with a wary eye. “I cannot imagine what business has to be conducted en route to Gentleman Jackson’s. Surely, it can wait until after our session.”

“Time is of the essence,” Edward explained as he climbed out of the carriage. “Mr. Petrie’s secretary—you recall Mr. Petrie from Bolingbroke’s soiree?—he has arrived in town and is in possession of some information vital to my well-being. At this very moment, he is visiting with Mr. Berry and I do not want to lose the chance to consult with him. As I said, it will take but a moment.”

Remembering the tedium of the evening, Addleson seriously doubted that the secretary of the infamous American bore would be succinct. He expected this brief errand would consume the rest of the day and began to consider dropping his cousin in earnest. Of course he knew Edward wasn’t really trying to recruit him for his gardening club, but his genuine lack of respect for the viscount’s time was troubling. His valet took up too many of his free hours for him to accept an additional burden now.

On a sigh, Addleson entered the cheerful quarters of the British Horticultural Society, with its airy entranceway and comfortable wingback chairs. Mr. Berry, an animated man of mild affability who neatly handled the organization’s business affairs, was quietly sorting through a stack of publications on his desk. He glanced up at his visitors and immediately rose to his feet.

“Mr. Abingdon,” he said warmly, “what an unexpected pleasure. Do come in. Please do. And Lord Addleson, it is an honor to welcome you to the heart of our operations.”

“I’m not here to trouble you, Mr. Berry,” Abingdon announced, as the clerk rushed to assure him he was no trouble at all. “I’ve just come to see Clemmons. Moray said he spotted him here over an hour ago.”

Mr. Berry nodded eagerly. “Yes, yes, he’s here. He came at the request of Mr. Petrie, who is so impressed with our organization that he intends to establish one just like it in New York. Naturally, of course, he cannot establish one
just
like it, as our institution is unique, with a long and storied history that cannot be replicated. I suspect Mr. Petrie will find it impossible to re-create the rigorous academic atmosphere we have established here, although I would never do anything to discourage his making the attempt. I know it is futile and you know it’s futile, but misplaced optimism is an essential part of the gardening process.”

“As it is an essential part of the American character,” Addleson added.

The clerk beamed at him. “You are correct, my lord.”

“Where is Clemmons now?” Abingdon asked.

“He is in the library reading the minutes of our most recent meetings,” Mr. Berry explained. “I realize sharing our private notes is highly irregular and I fully intended to deny the request, even though I respected his endeavor and, frankly, expected nothing less of Mr. Petrie. When Mr. Petrie was here earlier in the week, I noted a particularly avaricious gleam in his eye as he examined our lecture hall and naturally assumed he would want to create a similar temple to learning in New York. Actually, I
had
declined, but the Earl of Moray, who had spent a quiet morning reading the recent issue of
The Journal of the British Horticultural Society,
insisted I was being needlessly frugal with our knowledge and assured Clemmons it would be no problem for him to review our private materials.”

Although Addleson thought Mr. Berry was being needlessly generous with his knowledge, for two words—
the library
—would have been a sufficient answer, he followed the clerk into the large, book-lined room without complaining. Sunlight poured through a south-facing window, providing light for the solitary figure who leaned over a large ledger. Clemmons was so engrossed in his reading, he visibly jumped when Mr. Berry announced visitors. Immediately, he stood.

To the viscount’s relief, Mr. Berry was relatively concise in his introductions, rambling only for a minute about the society’s illustrious Mr. Abingdon, a description that amused his cousin, who had never known him to “quake with insight,” as the enthusiastic clerk put it.

While Mr. Berry spoke, Addleson examined Mr. Adolphus Clemmons, who cut a rather unimpressive figure, with his slight build and an unfortunate black mole that seemed to cling to the edge of his right nostril. His complexion was slightly off, indicating he had yet to recover fully from his grave illness, and his lips seemed like narrow strips against the broad plains of his face. His dark hair, speckled with a surprising amount of gray for one so young, emerged in clumps from his head.

His clothes, though neat and clean, clearly marked him as an American provincial, for his attempt to ape the elegant style of an English gentleman was woefully inadequate. His tailcoat, single-breasted with wide lapels and narrow sleeves that gathered at the shoulder, was an appallingly bright shade of pomona green. The way he was wearing his pantaloons further highlighted his ignorance, for even the most rural of one’s rural cousins knew the straps were worn under the shoe during the day; under the foot was only appropriate at night. Ultimately, however, it was the fit of the garments that proclaimed him a yokel, for they were not at all customized to suit his slim frame. Either Clemmons did not grasp the concept of tailoring or he was wearing another man’s clothes. The latter seemed more likely to him, and he imagined the secretary stopping at a charity shop on his way into town from the docks for an added dose of gravitas.

“Mr. Clemmons, I cannot tell you how pleased I am that you were able to make the journey,” Edward said with such force, the poor provincial looked positively terrified. His dark eyes almost popped out of his head.

He coughed several times before saying, “Really?”

Edward nodded emphatically. “Yes, yes, for you hold a piece of knowledge I simply must have. You see, I had an extensive discussion with Mr. Petrie about
Simmondsia chinensis
and he was unable to recall a detail that is of the utmost importance to me. He stated forthrightly, however, that you would be in possession of the information. So, Mr. Clemmons, do be kind enough to tell me how one improves the viscosity of jojoba oil during refinement.”

The question was so trivial, so unworthy of a stop at all, let alone a detour from a vigorous boxing session, that Addleson said, “What?”

Mr. Clemmons was also surprised by the query, for he, too, cried, “What?” at the exact same moment.

As annoyed as he was with his cousin, the viscount couldn’t help noticing something very strange about Mr. Clemmons’s exclamation. The quality of his voice was different: higher, less baritone, more—dare he say it?—feminine.

At once, his gaze flew to Mr. Clemmons’s eyes, simmering pools of black, and he thought how very similar they were to Lady Agatha’s.

Instinctively, he dismissed the notion as outrageous. What cause could she have to appear as thus at her father’s revered institution? Clearly, the reason he associated poor Mr. Clemmons with Lord Bolingbroke’s unusual daughter was she had been frequently on his mind since their last meeting, a rare condition for him that he found as irritating as it was intriguing. It was simply a trick of the brain—and a rather disturbing one at that—to see Lady Agony in the visage of a provincial American.

But once the idea was formed, it took hold and Addleson studied the figure more closely, ignoring the poorly fitting clothes that had distracted him from a proper first perusal. The hair, he noted now, was such a marvelous creation, it could only be a wig, one that was decades out of date, judging by the flecks of powder sprinkled in it, and the nose beneath the appalling mole tilted up with a familiar pertness. Then, of course, there were the eyes, Lady Agatha’s piercing, fathoms-deep eyes that looked at him with scorn. He would know them anywhere.

As shocked as he was to find her in such an unlikely position, a part of him wasn’t surprised at all. He didn’t understand Lady Agatha and he couldn’t pretend to comprehend her motives, and yet he had the confounding sense that he knew her. Watching her strive for a semicoherent response to Edward’s ridiculous question, he felt as if he knew her better than he knew anyone in the world.

“Ah, yes, the coveted oil of the
Simmondsia chinensis.
A very interesting topic, viscosity, but a wretched business all the same,” Lady Agatha said, clearly struggling to keep her deep baritone consistent. Every fourth or fifth word it shrieked upward and then settled down again in the lower register. Edward, eagerly awaiting a long-sought explanation, did not notice. “Yes, of course. The trick, you see, is litharge. Are you familiar with litharge?”

“I am not,” Edward admitted.

“You are not?” Lady Agatha said, seeming to gain confidence at this profession of ignorance. “Well, as I said, the secret is to use litharge, which is a mineral that forms from the oxidation of galena ores. You add litharge to a formulation of piled glass, calcined bones and mineral pigments boiled in linseed oil.”

Listening, Addleson smothered a smile as he realized she was explaining the process by which one made paint—but not the dainty watercolors ladies of her ilk routinely employed. Lady Agatha was describing oils, and Edward, who did not know lapis from lead, was fascinated.

“When the viscosity of the mixture meets your approval,” she continued, “you add it drop by drop into your extraction, stirring with an even hand, until you are satisfied with its thickness. And that, my dear sir, is how you improve the viscosity of jojoba oil during refinement.”

Lady Agatha concluded her talk with such commanding authority, Edward could do nothing but nod in agreement, even though questions remained. His cousin might be clueless about the manufacture of oil paints, but he was not an imbecile. The recipe her ladyship detailed was fraught with inexplicable ingredients such as piled glass, and even the most generous attempt to accept her explanation would be confounded by the inclusion of unspecified pigments.

Well aware of her vulnerability, Lady Agatha took an aggressive stance to end the conversation. “I trust our business is concluded, Mr. Abingdon. I am here to gather useful information at the specific request of Mr. Petrie and I would hate to fall short because I was too busy engaging in conversation. Given that you are familiar with my employer’s habits, I’m sure you won’t be surprised when I tell you he does not appreciate people who talk.”

Edward wrinkled his brow, as if trying to decide if this observation about Mr. Petrie was intended to be a slight, and Addleson jumped into the conversation before his cousin noticed anything amiss about Clemmons’s American accent, which was turning more British with every syllable.

“The gentleman is right, Edward,” he said forcefully, “you must be on your way, for you are already late for your appointment at the salon. I shall remain here to improve my acquaintance with Mr. Clemmons.”