The Bolingbroke Chit: A Regency Romance (25 page)

It wouldn’t be a real kiss, not truly, for it would not be that frenzied feasting that sent waves of inexorable heat coursing through one’s body. No, not at all. Rather, it would be a tepid brush of the lips, a mere taste to satisfy a curiosity, a bagatelle that would be over almost before it began.

Really, there was no reason to scruple. All he had to do was tip his head forward and—

“Pardon the interruption,” Mr. Berry announced as he entered the room.

Chapter Ten

Agatha never imagined
she would feel grateful for an itchy wig and a poorly constructed tailcoat that had torn the moment she had stretched it across her flattened chest. What a humiliating turn that had been—causing a tear in the tailcoat of one’s footman. The poor fellow didn’t even know he had lent her his clothes, as Ellen had snuck into Williams’s quarters to remove the items without permission. Agatha knew it was underhanded and inconsiderate to steal from the servants, but she couldn’t very well walk up to the Bolingbrokes’ third footman and request the loan of his pantaloons and waistcoat.

If only Lord Bolingbroke weren’t so tall and stout! Then she could have just taken the clothes from his wardrobe, which would have felt considerably less felonious. But her father had been unable to contribute anything to her disguise, not even one beleaguered old wig. For that, she had had to root around the attics in a trunk of her late grandfather’s clothes. The wretched thing had not seen the light of day since the introduction of the powder tax and had required a significant grooming to make it less of a relic. Regardless, no amount of trimming and styling could make its fiber any less itchy.

Gathering the clothes, however, had been only half of the struggle, for putting them on proved to be almost as difficult. Her maid had tried to help, smoothing out the wrinkles, finessing the fit and sewing the tear, but Ellen’s familiarity with men’s clothing was as limited as her mistress’s and she was unable to perform miracles. Agatha, her buttons in awkward places and her pantaloons in danger of sliding off, feared she looked like an actor in a theater company with a limited supply of costumes.

Fully dressed, she had turned her attention to her face, using her artist’s eye to subtly adjust the shape of her features with her mother’s face paints. She thinned her lips, widened her jawline and added an unappealing beauty mark to the tip of her nose to draw attention away from her eyes. She realized the result wasn’t entirely convincing, but she also knew from her experience as Lady Agony that people see what they expect to see. Mr. Berry would not be looking for Agatha Bolingbroke under the coarse, speckled wig of Mr. Clemmons.

To ensure a swift exit and minimal parental interference, she had slipped through the window in her studio, a subterfuge she had never practiced before but had thought about with alarming frequency since her come out. How easy to just disappear through a hole and be free.

Now, however, as the clerk of the British Horticultural Society strode into the room, she gave thanks for every itchy fiber of her horrendously uncomfortable disguise, for the efficient clerk noticed nothing untoward in her proximity to Addleson. Thinking her to be a man, he had no cause to suspect inappropriate behavior and naturally concluded their nearness was merely a matter of efficacy. How else were two people to read the same book?

And it
was
merely a matter of efficacy, Agatha told herself, even though for a moment there, for the most fleeting second between breaths, she had believed it was something else. Her heart had raced in unbearable expectation as she waited for Lord Addleson to kiss her.

Even as her blood pounded, she had known her anticipation was misguided. The urbane viscount with the razor-sharp wit did not have romantical feelings toward her. Yes, he had admitted with startling candor that he took pleasure in her company, but how quickly he had regretted those words! A mix of horror and panic swept across his handsome features so swiftly, even a besotted schoolgirl would have known the truth, and she could almost see his brain scrambling to figure out the best way to explain he’d meant as a king would enjoy a jester’s company.

It was actually very funny because in her wig and face paints and Williams’s finery she was practically
dressed
as a court jester. Even without the costume, she was like a character in an allegory: Lady Agony, who illustrates how a young lady ought not to behave. She did not doubt that many matchmaking mamas used her as a cautionary tale to keep their daughters in line.

Agatha did not care about that. Truly she didn’t, for she had plans that did not include endearing herself to society. But as she’d sat in the quiet library of the horticultural society anxiously awaiting the viscount’s kiss, she’d found herself wishing for the ability to endear herself to at least one man.

“It is a very good thing you are still here, Mr. Clemmons,” the clerk said as he walked across the room, “for Lord Waldegrave has arrived to see you.”

Agatha rose to her feet and smiled tightly. Her new visitor seemed pleasant enough, with light brown hair and gray eyes, but she tensed her shoulders at the prospect of another impossible question. First the Earl of Moray had asked her about the absorbency rate of bloodroot, which Mr. Petrie had sworn his assistant would know, and then Mr. Abingdon had intruded with his query about jojoba. As the daughter of a longtime member of the British Horticultural Society, she knew enough to bluster her way past Mr. Berry—flattery, flattery, flattery—and to make plantish-sounding answers to questions about plants, but there was only so much nonsense she could spout before eyebrows were raised. She had barely squeaked by with a garbled explanation of how a concoction of lead and linseed oil increased the viscosity of
Simmondsia chinensis
.

While conversing with Mr. Petrie, she had noted that the American naturalist often referenced his secretary when confronted with a fact he did not know. It had never occurred to her, however, that Petrie had done the same with everyone to whom he spoke. If it had, she would have taken the time to come up with another ruse.

This realization highlighted the single biggest fault of her plan: its failure to consider the possibility of pressing horticultural questions. The oversight was understandable, for how could she have accounted for such a thing? They were
horticultural
questions. The fate of the world did not depend on the absorbency rate of bloodroot.

Six, for the record, was her answer: The absorbency rate of bloodroot was six. Moray, who was famous for his conciliatory nature, did not bat an eyelash and graciously agreed her number sounded right. In fact, he had seemed so satisfied, she had felt compelled to babble for a few extraneous minutes about root diameters and rhizome density.

“It is a pleasure to meet you,” Waldegrave said now, extending his hand.

Agatha had also not factored a manly grip into her decision to impersonate a gentleman, and as she stiffened her hand yet again in greeting, she hoped she pulled off a reasonable facsimile.

Waldegrave seemed content with her effort. “The pleasure is all mine, as Mr. Petrie’s conversation made it quite clear that you are a hugely busy man. I’m grateful you have the time to talk to me. Congratulations on your recovery. Mr. Petrie thought you would be confined to the bed for at least a month.”

Knowing how many responsibilities were heaped onto Mr. Clemmons’s shoulders and how endlessly Mr. Petrie could prattle on, Agatha was unable to decide whether the secretary’s sudden sickness was caused by exhaustion or a desire to spare himself an ocean journey in his employer’s company. She refused to believe he had simply eaten a rotten joint of mutton or digested a spoiled beef pasty.

“Leeches,” she said. “My illness ’twas nothing that a few judiciously placed leeches could not cure.”

“Which is fortunate for us, for the British Horticultural Society is delighted to export its high ideals to the New World and I’m happy to do whatever I can to help you in the establishment of a sister organization,” Mr. Berry said cheerfully, as he explained to Waldegrave her purpose in being there. He was at a loss to explain the viscount’s. “We are flattered by your attentions, as well, Lord Addleson, but I wonder at your interest in the institution’s private matters. The minutes to our meetings are not for the edification of the general populace. They are only for our members”—he darted an apologetic look at Waldegrave—“to peruse.”

“That is my fault, I’m afraid,” Agatha said quickly in her American baritone, which was getting easier to maintain the more she employed it. “I appealed to him for help, for I could not understand how a large and complex organization could be run with such outstanding, genial efficiency.”

Agatha saw Addleson suppress a grin before concurring enthusiastically with her comment. “Being unaccustomed to the ways of the English gentleman, Mr. Clemmons wondered if valuable information had been elided from the record, such as disagreements or disputes. I assured him we have too much respect for one another to get into minor spats over inconsequential things. I have to admit, however, that even for a British institution, your society seems unusually well run and convivial. You make it seem so effortless, I’m encouraged to start my own organization for the examination and cultivation of plants,” he said, as if seriously considering the idea. “I would first need to establish a color scheme for the uniforms, for I could not bear to have an ill-matching membership. I don’t know how you do it, Mr. Berry, letting everyone assemble in clothes they selected individually with no thought to the whole.” The viscount shuddered as if truly horrified by the disharmonious result. “Then I would need to design an insignia—perhaps a heraldic shield with a fleur-de-lis on it, or is that too obvious? Should I dig deeper to find a more obscure floral reference? Now that I consider the details, it actually seems like a tremendous amount of effort. I do not know how you do it, Mr. Berry, and I don’t just mean with your apparent color-blindness.”

Uncertain how to interpret Addleson’s comments, the clerk paused for a moment before deciding that the balance of his observations was positive and thanked him for his praise. If Mr. Berry had further concerns about the viscount’s perusal of the society’s documents, he did not voice them. Rather, he excused himself from the company, for the coordination of such a large effort did not happen on its own.

“Our Mr. Berry can be loquacious,” Waldegrave said as soon as the clerk had left. “He is very proud of the organization and tends to let his enthusiasm run way with him. With that in mind, I shall be brief. Mr. Petrie informed me of a remarkable species of orchidaceae that does not practice photosynthetic nutrition. He assured me you were well familiar with it. I am what my father describes as an orchid fiend and absolutely must know more.”

Agatha tried not to wince at the words
photosynthetic nutrition,
but it was difficult to contain her anxiety at the mention of a scientific concept of which she was unacquainted. She could try to decipher what the term meant—
photo
derived from the Greek word for “light”; nutrition had to do with making sure one received proper nourishment—but it was much easier to focus on the part of the question she knew something about: orchids. Like Waldegrave and many of the members of the society, her father was also an orchid fiend, and if there was one thing she had learned about orchids, it was that they were bizarre. Other flowers were fairly predictable, but the orchid came in every shape, size and color, taking on strange, inexplicable forms. Sketch a teacup with an overlarge handle and it could be an orchid. Throw the laces of your shoes on the floor and their haphazard arrangement could be an orchid. Eat half your supper and what remained on the plate could be an orchid. There were simply no rules governing the appearance and behavior of orchidaceae.

“Yes, yes, of course, the non-photosynthetic-nutrition orchid, a fascinating subject, so surprising and unexpected,” she said thoughtfully, stalling for time as she tried to come up with realistic-sounding characteristics. If it did not use light to make food, then perhaps it lived somewhere very dark. Where was such a place? “Underground! The orchid spends its entire life several feet below the surface in”—she thought of a place very far away—“Java. Because it doesn’t get sunlight, it’s a very pale color, almost white, and has no leaves. It is only a stem and it feeds off the roots of other plants nearby.” Now all she needed was a name. She recalled her Latin lessons. “It is called
Orchidaceae opscurum.
”

“
Orchidaceae opscurum,
” Waldegrave said, as if committing the name to memory. “
Orchidaceae opscurum.
”

“
Orchidaceae opscurum,
” she repeated firmly, more than slightly unsettled by the spark of excitement glowing in his eyes. He had warned her he was a fiend, and she had just given him a new object on which to focus his frenzy. She wouldn’t be surprised if he went straight to the docks to charter a ship for Java. At the very least, he would spend the rest of his life muttering
Orchidaceae opscurum
in his sleep.

When pressed for more details, Agatha made up additional traits, each one more outlandish than the last, until finally Waldegrave was satisfied he had exhausted Mr. Clemmons’s knowledge. Then he thanked the ersatz American profusely and left.

Addleson barely had time to compliment Agatha on her creation (“Inspired choice making it white, so it will coordinate nicely with all the other
opscurum
flowers buried beneath the earth”) before Mr. Berry returned in the company of a ginger-haired gentleman with overly groomed eyebrows and a tentative smile: Mr. Irby, who had been referred to Clemmons by Mr. Petrie and had a question about sand dunes.