The Bolingbroke Chit: A Regency Romance (26 page)

Sand dunes!

It took all of Agatha’s self-control not to cry out in despair.

As mentally fatiguing as it was to have to bluff her way through another conversation (“Surprisingly, sand dunes are only 78 percent sand”), part of her was grateful for Irby’s company. The problem was not that she didn’t want to be alone with Addleson but, rather, how very much she did. Desiring a gentleman’s company was an unprecedented experience for Agatha and she worried about what it might mean. Clearly, she had feelings for him, otherwise she would not have anticipated his kiss with such eagerness.

His kiss, which her decidedly irrational brain had invented from whole cloth.

It had been a revelation to Lady Agatha Bolingbroke to discover she had a talent for fiction. Perhaps she could write stories to go with her illustrations.

The misunderstanding, she knew, sprang from her genuine admiration for the viscount, for he was unlike any other gentleman she had ever met. Even after he had listed the facts that led to his conclusion, she still could not grasp how he had deciphered the truth about Mr. Holyroodhouse. To anyone else, a callused finger and a knowledge of pigments would indicate a proclivity for painting, not a secret identity as a famous London caricaturist. The accusation had been so breathtaking, she made no attempt to refute it. Denial would not have served her purpose anyway, for he had easily seen through her feeble disguise as Mr. Clemmons. She did not know when exactly he had figured out the truth, but it was not long after he had entered the room.

What a horrifying moment
that
had been—watching him stroll into the library and having to greet him as Mr. Clemmons. Her heart had actually leaped into her throat as she swallowed a strangled cry. For God’s sake, what was he doing there?

It was his damned cousin Edward’s fault, with his idiotic question about
Simmondsia chinensis
. What matter was it to him how thick the oil was? Did he intend to create a magical elixir out of jojoba? Would he set up shop in Oxford Street and sell it to the ladies?

Mr. Abingdon could have no pressing reason to follow up with Mr. Clemmons except a desire to make an annoyance of himself, a task at which he had succeeded beautifully.

His cousin knew it, for he had thought the question as trivial as she did. His annoyance, however, quickly gave way to amusement as she struggled not to sound like a complete nodcock. She had seen the twinkle in his eye. The blasted man always had a twinkle in his eye, for the world was endlessly amusing to him.

As she was endlessly amusing. He took pleasure in her company indeed!

Agatha knew he would unmask her in a flutter of high theatrical drama and waited anxiously for the moment. When it came—after his cousin had departed—she had to acknowledge his innate decency. The frivolity with which he treated the world was not just an affectation, for his enjoyment of the trivial was sincere, but neither was it the whole story. Addleson was also capable of great kindness, as demonstrated by the care he took to alleviate her distress at Lord Paddleton’s ball.

It was this treatment of her that she had thought of as she tried to resist his offer to help. It had been elegantly posed and sincerely made, but the thought of admitting to a personal weakness was unbearable, for it wasn’t merely personal weakness she would be admitting to but an engulfing helplessness. Her ingenious plan had failed. Nothing in Townshend’s voting record indicated coercion, and the minutes leading up to the ballot described only sundry business matters and procedural motions.

She had no evidence. Without evidence, she had no direction. With no direction, she had no chance of overcoming Townshend’s threats.

All had seemed hopeless.

Then suddenly Addleson was there—Addleson, who appeared to divine the truth out of thin air, who looked at the same square everyone else did and saw a cube, whose perpetual amusement somehow offered comfort.

The viscount had made his plea to help and she’d accepted, for he was everything one sought in a co-conspirator: kind, honorable and astute. If her feelings for him were a little too warm—if, for example, they created nonexistent kisses out of whole cloth—then she would simply deal with the moments as they occurred and put them behind her. One way or another, her problem would be resolved soon enough, and then she would be free of Addleson’s company.

For now, however, she longed for it and dreaded it in equal measure.

As Agatha explained how species colonized sand dunes—a description based entirely on her understanding of how the upstairs maid organized the linen closet—she darted a look at Addleson, expecting to see that familiar twinkle. Instead, her eyes met the top of his head, for his nose was buried deep in the minutes.

She felt a stab of disappointment that he wasn’t appreciating her clever dodge, which was immediately followed by a burst of disgust, for she was not a jester performing for the king and had to stop acting like one.

“In the end, it all comes down to organization,” Agatha said, “for no matter how large and boundless an area is, you never seem to have enough space.”

“Yes, of course, that’s it!” Mr. Irby said enthusiastically, as if something very difficult and complex had finally been explained in simple enough terms for him to understand. Agatha rather thought it was the opposite. “You are a pleasure to talk to, Mr. Clemmons, and I’m very grateful for your imparted wisdom. Do say you will dine at my town house before you leave.”

Agatha, who could imagine nothing more horrible than trying to maintain her disguise through an entire meal, nodded agreeably. “I shall consult with Mr. Petrie about my schedule and send a note.”

Irby beamed. “Very good, very good. I understand from Mr. Berry that you are reading our minutes to discover the secrets to our successful society and that the viscount is here to provide you with guidance. As a member, I am a treasure trove of knowledge, so please do not hesitate to contact me if you need further information. Perhaps I should stay to provide firsthand experience.”

“Another generous offer. I thank you again,” Agatha said, wondering if she could slip her arm around the loiterer to direct him to the door. As a woman, such a gesture would be forbidden, but it seemed appropriate among the casual fraternity of men. Had not Addleson treated his cousin thus when coercing Abingdon to depart quickly? “But I cannot agree. I’m sure you have more important matters to attend to and I could not live with myself if I kept you from them for my own selfish reasons. Now toddle off before I am entirely debilitated by a guilty conscience.”

Unable to resist such a pointed plea, Irby thanked Clemmons again for his masterful discussion of a difficult topic, promised to look out for the missive about dinner and conceded that, yes, he did have an important business matter concerning a recent investment in a gold mine to which to attend.

When the door finally closed behind him, Agatha sighed deeply, threw herself in a chair and laid her head on the table. At Addleson’s chuckle, which was immediate in coming, she opened one eye, and meeting his gaze, saw the delighted twinkle.

Her heart hitched.

You are not his jester, she reminded herself forcefully.

She would never submit to such humiliating work, but she could understand the appeal of the job.

“I must salute you, Lady Agatha,” Addleson announced, “on another concise and brilliant explanation of a natural phenomenon. I don’t know how you arrived at your exact composition of the sand dune, but your calculation of two percent bird dung seems entirely accurate to me.”

Agatha lifted her head and opened her other eye. “I worry about the existence of Mr. Irby’s gold mine if he did not realize my answer was 100 percent bird dung.”

Addleson chuckled appreciatively again, then said in a more businesslike tone, “Before your father comes strolling in here to ask about the average temperature of native grasses in Abyssinia, let’s discuss our situation, for even if he does not recognize his daughter, he is sure to recognize his wig.”

Now Agatha laughed. “Actually, the wig belonged to my grandfather, so it’s unlikely he would recognize it. Your point, however, is well taken. My plan to impersonate Mr. Petrie’s absent assistant was hastily conceived, but even if I had had a month to think about it, I would never have imagined word of my presence spreading so quickly. No doubt the news has already reached Mr. Petrie in Bath.”

“All plans have unforeseeable complications,” the viscount said with a shrug of his pair of very fine shoulders. “Now, while you were trying to distract me with your implausible explanation of how pioneer species colonize, I reviewed all the minutes from the last year.”

Aware they had no time to waste, Agatha did not bother to deny the allegation that she had been trying to distract him. Instead, she chastised herself for noticing the quality of his shoulders and asked if he had learned anything useful.

“I’m not really sure,” he said, sliding the book toward her and flipping to the middle. “On the face of it, no, for there isn’t any specific information we can use against Townshend. As you know, the minutes are mostly devoted to procedural matters. It tells us what issues were voted on and how each member voted, who attended each meeting, who added agenda items for each meeting. Go back twelve months and you will see that many of the agenda items were added by Mr. Berry. There are exceptions, of course, such as when your father proposed inviting Mr. Petrie to speak or Sir Charles suggested an increase in dues. Six months ago, Townshend added an agenda item, which he had not done once in the six months preceding. Then, over the next two months, he added four more items and each time it concerned Mr. Petrie’s visit.”

Startled, Agatha looked down at the entry to which Addleson was pointing and leaned in closer to get a better look. It was there in black-and-white—agenda item number five: Mr. Petrie’s Invitation to Speak.

Addleson turned to the minutes for the next meeting and she saw it again: Mr. Petrie’s Invitation to Speak. He flipped ahead two weeks and pointed to the third item on the agenda: Mr. Petrie’s Invitation to Speak. He thumbed through a half dozen pages and waited for her to find it: Mr. Petrie’s Invitation to Speak.

Agatha could not imagine what it meant. She herself had noted Townshend’s interest in Mr. Petrie’s visit, but it had not struck her as peculiar. She merely assumed the deputy director of Kew was eager to meet a fellow naturalist from another part of the world. Having not gone as far back as Addleson, she failed to see the three other agenda items or to place them in a larger context.

But now that the viscount had identified a pattern, she realized there was something unusual about his interest and felt a tinge of excitement. Unusual was evidence. With evidence, she had a direction. With a direction, she had a chance of overcoming Townshend’s threats.

Her heart racing, Agatha looked at Addleson. Far from twinkling, his eyes were deadly serious.

Before either one of them could say a word, the object of their speculation marched into the room and strolled forcefully across the floor. A smiling Mr. Berry trotted behind him, trying to catch up.

“You will never believe it, Mr. Clemmons,” the clerk announced, slightly out of breath as he covered the last few steps to the table, “but yet another one of our members has paid you a call. At the risk of sounding hyperbolic, I must say you are the single most popular visitor we have ever had here—excluding lecturers, of course. I don’t mean to imply that you are more popular than the many accomplished men who have spoken here.”

While Mr. Berry clarified his statement, Agatha stared at him aghast, dumbfounded by the situation and clueless as to what to do next. Should she look at Townshend? He was there to see her. It would be strange, would it not, if she refused to look at the person expressly there to visit her? But how could she look at him? He might recognize her, even dressed in her footman’s clothes and her grandfather’s wig.

The wig!

That confounded contrivance itched so much she felt like a flea-ridden mouse on the back of a flea-ridden dog, and it felt as if it would slide off at any moment.

Was it crooked? Had it shifted? Was it about to tumble to the floor?

She was afraid to move her head and knew she must not raise a hand to touch it because that would look bizarre. Gentlemen did not straighten their hair.

Addleson, whose mind was not overwhelmed by doubt and fear, greeted the newcomer with an easy smile and an extended hand. “I don’t believe we’ve met. I am Jonah Hamilton, Viscount Addleson.”

Mr. Berry, who considered all greetings and salutations to be within his purview, immediately jumped in to complete the introductions.

“Townshend,” the viscount said curiously, “of the Beaminster Townshends?”

“No, my lord,” Townshend said firmly.

“Of the Snodland Townshends, then?”

He shook his head. “I’m afraid not.”

“Ah, so it must be the Glossop Townshends. Lovely people. I once borrowed a sheep from them that I failed to return. They have never brought it up once. You will convey my apologies, I trust?”

By the scowl on his face, it was clear that Mr. Luther Townshend was not of the Glossop clan either, but rather than extend the conversation, he agreed to comply with the viscount’s request with all possible haste.

“I would expect nothing less from a Glossop Townshend,” Addleson replied approvingly. “As I said, lovely people.”