The Bolingbroke Chit: A Regency Romance (29 page)

That Lady Agatha was at the root of his strange behavior he did not doubt. Having induced her to trust him with her problem, he felt a driving need to solve it. The task itself did not daunt him, for he had always relished a challenge, but the assumption of responsibility for another human being did give him pause. For years he had thought of only his own pleasure, and aside from removing his cousin Edward from the faro table when he was too deep in his cups for play, he had not inconvenienced himself for anybody.

Now he was committed to thwarting a blackmailer before he could utterly destroy an innocent young woman. He understood the requirements of honor well enough to know the obligation was there regardless of whether it was sought. Only a cad would abandon a lady to her fate once he’d learned of it.

But this detached evaluation of the situation, neatly arrived at in his agile brain, did not sit right with Addleson. He was not helping an indeterminate young lady in an unpleasant predicament. He was helping Agatha—remarkable, surprising, funny, clever, stubborn, reckless, brave, talented, beautiful, desirable Agatha.

He did not feel these things because he was a gentleman saving a lady. He felt them because he was a man saving a woman.

Although the viscount was not one to shrink from complicated concepts, he was not as familiar with complicated emotions and decided it would be best for the success of their alliance if he dismissed these thoughts from his head.

“I am agog to hear what you imagined,” Agatha said, leaning forward in her chair, “for I love a good adventure story, especially when I am the heroine, but it will have to wait until after I’ve said my piece. I promise you, my story is far more unbelievable.”

Addleson leaned forward, too, and noted with regret how far she was from him still. The Bolingbroke drawing room, for all its cheerful comfort, had none of the cherished intimacy of the British Horticultural Society’s library.

“Before I begin,” she added, “you must swear to me that you will react calmly. It does our cause no good if you storm out in a temper or, worse, wave your fist in the air while pledging vengeance.”

As if by design, her statement made him doubly impatient to hear the details of her exchange with Townshend, but he could not help pausing over her priorities. “By what measure is my waving a fist in vengeance worse than storming out?”

“I would have to sit through it,” she explained, “and I cannot imagine anything more tedious.”

“Truly?” he asked in a delighted tone. “After an afternoon of explaining scientific concepts you had no knowledge of,
that
would be the most tedious thing you can imagine? I fear you have the advantage over me.”

Agatha laughed. “You cannot hoodwink me, Lord Addleson. You thoroughly enjoyed listening to my preposterous explanations. The look in your eye was one perpetual twinkle.”

“Jonah,” he said suddenly.

She drew her brows in confusion. “Excuse me?”

No,
he thought,
excuse me for bringing my complicated emotions into this conversation despite my resolution not to.

But there was no way around it: He detested hearing the cool formality in her tone, as if they had not been a hair’s breadth from a searing kiss just hours before. If only Waldegrave —damn his imprudence!—had not arrived.

“Jonah,” he said again, his voice husky now with expectation. He was no schoolboy and knew well the excesses of passion, and yet this chaste longing to hear his name on her lips brought him almost unbearable pleasure. “If we are to be conspirators, you should at least call me by my name.”

Although she seemed disconcerted by his explanation, she agreed. “Very well, Jonah. Do I have your agreement to remain calm?”

Distracted by his own perversity, it took him a moment to recall the topic. “Yes, you do, Agatha.”

If it caused her any pleasure to hear her name from his lips, she did not indicate it by look or deed. “Good, then we can proceed. As soon as you left the room, Townshend stomped over to me and—please note: This is the part where you are going to have to exert your self-control—slapped me across the cheek.”

Addleson heard the words and he saw the action play out in his head and still he said with quiet menace, “He what?”

“Slapped me across the cheek,” she repeated matter-of-factly. “It was this cheek here, and you can see there is no mark. The important thing is he did not intend to sl—”

She broke off when his hand made contact with her cheek. He did not blame her, for the feel of her warm cheek against his cool hand surprised him, too. He had not meant to touch her. He’d thought only of examining her face a little more closely to confirm no lasting damage had been done. But then, as if by their own volition, his fingers brushed tenderly against the silky skin Townshend had dared to molest.

“You are wrong,” he said softly. “There is a mark.”

She shook her head gently. “It is only a small one.”

“Yes,” he said, wondering how she would react if he kissed the mark, so very small though it was. Something about the way she was staring at him, hesitant yet hungry, made him think she would be receptive. Very, very receptive.

It would be an act of madness, of course, for it would not stop at the one kiss and the door to the drawing room was wide open. Plus, the maid—ah, yes, Ellen—was somewhere close by and was no doubt on the verge of coughing with delicate pointedness to remind him of her presence.

Sighing deeply, he leaned back in the settee and contented himself with swearing silent vengeance against the deputy director of Kew. As his fist was not in the air at the time, he satisfied himself that his word had been kept.

Agatha also leaned back, as if seeking shelter or protection in the depths of the oversize armchair. “As I was about to explain, ’twas not I, Lady Agatha, who was the target of Townshend’s wrath. He was furious with Mr. Clemmons. Apparently, the two of them have had a longstanding agreement, which he felt Townshend had betrayed.”

As Agatha relayed the story, Addleson found his anger replaced first by surprise, then by cynical amusement. What originally seemed like an unlikely contrivance—an esteemed member of an elite gardening society and a director of the most respected garden in the kingdom cribbing notes from an unknown American enthusiast—struck him in the end as the inevitable course taken by a corrupt gentleman who did not relish hard work. Townshend’s actions against Agatha and Miss Harlow spoke already of a weaselly nature, and his penchant for ruffled sleeves, a fashion embellishment as outdated as Lord Bolingbroke’s father’s wig, indicated a fondness for oppressive regimes. Agatha would dismiss his opinion as frivolous and trivial, but, in all sincerity, he would expect any sort of wickedness from a man whose commitment to repressive eighteenth-century ideals was unwavering.

“This has been going on for years?” he asked.

She bobbed her head sharply. “Four, to be precise. I do not know the actual number of articles that have been plagiarized, but it seemed like a significant number. Townshend knew the truth would likely be discovered once Petrie arrived in London, so he arranged for Clemmons to incapacitate him. He was supposed to put a dose of arsenic in his coffee so Petrie would be too sick to travel but somehow managed to dose his own cup instead. That is why he stayed behind and Petrie traveled alone.”

“Fascinating,” Addleson murmured as he tried to imagine the scene at the docks the morning of departure—the moment when the beleaguered and not very bright secretary realized he had not only failed to poison Petrie but had also succeeded in incapacitating himself. Oh, the futile rage at his encompassing ineptitude. Oh, the helplessness as that first wave of intestinal distress gurgled through his system. Did he even understand at first what was happening? Had he perhaps assumed it was a plate of ill-prepared eggs that caused his stomach complaint?

The viscount was far too well bred to laugh at the physical suffering of another, but he allowed himself a small smile. Sometimes, justice was self-administered.

Agatha did not view the events in the same analytical light, for she forcefully corrected his description. “It’s horrifying.”

“Let’s agree to compromise: horrifying
and
fascinating,” he offered diplomatically. “You say there are letters attesting to this history?”

“Townshend claims to have saved every letter Clemmons has sent him, starting with the missive introducing himself and suggesting the plan. He believes there’s enough detail in the recent one to have Clemmons sent immediately to the gallows,” she said. “I am not guilty of any crime, nor am I a foreigner to these shores, but Townshend’s argument for swift justice based on the evidence at hand was chilling. I think his assessment of the situation is accurate—
if
I were indeed Clemmons.”

With very little effort, Addleson called to mind the scene in the library and pictured Townshend towering over a tremulous Agatha, his eyes blazing with fury. Her description of the events, cool and matter-of-fact, painted a very different image and as much as he wanted to believe her account, he knew the whole experience must have been chilling.

For that alone—the sense of fear and helplessness she must have felt—he would seek revenge.

“But you are not Clemmons,” he reminded her.

“I am not Clemmons, so I have no cause to fear the letters,” she said. “We must find them.”

Addleson nodded, for, yes, they did need to locate those letters. Having evidence against Townshend would cancel out the evidence he had against Agatha. But would that eliminate the threat or simply delay it? Given Townshend’s record of infamy, the viscount rather thought it was the latter. In order to remove the threat entirely, they would have to come up with a more elaborate scheme than simply stealing the correspondence.

“He provided no details as to the probable location of the letters, but the obvious place to start the search is his residence,” she continued. “Other than slipping through the window of my studio—and I’ve only done that for the first time today—I have no experience secretly entering and exiting secured homes. I am, however, a quick learner and feel certain I can acquire the skill as I am practicing it. Shall we schedule the break-in for tomorrow night? We shall have to come up with a ruse to ensure Townshend is away from his home. Perhaps my father can unknowingly help us with that.”

The viscount smiled. How could he not when confronted with such undiluted confidence? “I don’t doubt for a moment you could become a champion thief overnight, but you should not invest in the tools for your new trade just yet. Your plan fails to take into account our more immediate problem.”

Agatha furrowed her brow, as if suspecting a trick. “The more immediate problem of distracting me with some other issue so you can break into Townshend’s house on your own?”

“I’m not that devious,” Addleson assured her, while privately wondering to what lengths he would go to keep her safe. Lying about a little housebreaking seemed like a minor offense to ensure her well-being. “I refer, of course, to Petrie’s presentation at the horticultural society six nights hence. Townshend can’t let him take the podium, for as soon as his friends and associates in the society hear the lecture, they will realize something is amiss. No, he must dispense with Petrie before then. You said Petrie is returning on Friday, correct? That gives Townshend only forty-eight hours to make his move.”

Agatha bolted upright in her chair. “Yes, of course. I tried to elicit from Townshend precisely what his plan was, but he thought I—that is, Clemmons—was trying to wrangle more money from him and refused to answer. Certainly he will do something to incapacitate Petrie before the lecture. The question is, will he use arsenic again or something more deadly?”

“Regardless, we cannot take the risk,” he said.

Slowly, she shook her head. “No, we cannot. We must gather our evidence immediately.”

“We must?” Addleson asked, thinking that they would not have to gather anything. If they played the scene correctly, Townshend would bring the evidence to them and do so obligingly in front of a team of Runners.

“Yes, then we can use the letters as leverage to make Townshend abandon his plan to hurt Petrie and stop his persecution of Miss Harlow and leave off harassing Mr. Holyroodhouse,” she said excitedly, before pausing and tilting her head thoughtfully. “My, that is quite an extensive list of sins for one packet of letters to ensure against.”

“I agree,” Addleson said. “In order for us to permanently neutralize the threat Townshend poses, we will need more ammunition. I have a plan that I think will work, but it requires you to dress as Mr. Clemmons again. How do you feel about that?”

She sighed dramatically. “The wig is a problem.”

He recalled the monstrosity she wore on her head and smiled. “Yes, it certainly is.”

“I shall have to search the attics for another,” she explained, “for the one I wore today is cinders in my fireplace grate.”

“I’m impressed with your fortitude. I would have tossed it out the window long before I returned home,” he said.

“Then you would have looked very funny climbing out of the hack with your long hair in pins,” she said, grinning. “But to the matter at hand: Other than the inconvenience of the wig—and I mean the inconvenience of wearing it, not acquiring it, for the hairpiece was remarkable for its discomfort—I have no objection to once again adopting the identity of Mr. Clemmons. I assume Townshend and I will have another standoff. To what purpose?”