The Bolingbroke Chit: A Regency Romance (30 page)

“As you said, Townshend’s threat against Clemmons, though chilling to hear, has no bearing on you because you are neither a criminal nor a foreigner. The real target of his threat is thousands of miles away in New York, which he does not know,” he said and watched with delight as the light of understanding dawned in her eyes. “So we will send a missive from Clemmons suggesting an exchange of evidence: his packet of letters for your packet of letters.”

Excited now by the scheme, Agatha jumped to her feet and started pacing the room. “Because I am a villain, too, and, as a villain, I am far too cynical to come to the home country of my co-conspirator without protection.”

“Exactly,” he said, rising to his feet as well.

“And, naturally,” she continued, clearly enjoying the game, “I’m far too hardened by my life of crime to simply hand over anything. No, first I must insist that we have a little chat about who did what and when and then press for details about how he plans to dispose of Petrie. While this is going on, we will…what?” She looked at Addleson thoughtfully as she ran through ideas. “Have someone on hand who can act in an official capacity. Who will it be? A magistrate? A Bow Street Runner?”

“A team of Bow Street Runners.”

With an appreciative nod, she stopped her pacing near the front window and smiled with approval. “That’s good. That’s really quite good. Newgate prison is a much better negotiating tool than the letters. I’m very impressed, Jonah.”

At the compliment, Addleson felt a flush of pleasure that was entirely out of proportion to the praise itself. Its cause was simple. In truth, it was far too simple for him to accept, for all it had taken was the sound of his name on her lips and the light of respect in her eyes. Just those two meager things and he had slipped from admiration to infatuation.

Having never made the journey before, he was an uncertain traveler and could not understand the odd frantic pressure in his chest. Was it panic? Could it be panic? Was it fear? Was it terror? Was it dread? Should he suddenly remember another engagement and come back in the morning when he had himself better under control?

The idea of leaving made sense, of giving himself time to figure out what he was feeling, and yet he remained rooted to the spot, for how could he leave her now, when he’d just discovered this remarkable feeling, this exultation, this irresistible desire to bask in her presence.

He was not going anywhere.

And yet it was unbearable to stay.

To hide the emotion, which was too intense for the drawing room, particularly one with an open door and a lady’s maid, he bowed politely and said thank you.

His voice sounded strange to him, as if there were a difference in vocal timber between infatuated Addleson and noninfatuated Addleson.

Lord Addlewit indeed, he thought in amusement and felt his heart start to steady. The respite was sweet but painfully short, for in five quick strides she was at his side and somehow taking his hands into her own.

“No,” she said, squeezing his fingers with sincere affection and gratitude, “thank
you.
You have been a true friend to me today, and I don’t know what I would have done without a friend.”

The viscount looked into her eyes, those fathomless black pools that somehow saw everything, and resolved never to look away even as he did just that. Gently, he extricated his hands from hers, for he had no other choice. Either he pulled himself away from her or pulled her toward him.

Using the vacuous tone that had earned him Mr. Holyroodhouse’s scorn, he said, “I know. You would have broken into Townshend’s apartment without delay, and given the limitations of Mr. Clemmons’s tailor, I can easily imagine the sartorial ignominy with which you would have committed the crime.” He affected a shudder. “Truly, I can’t decide which offense is worse.”

Agatha laughed, as he had intended, and took a step back. “You’re right about my actions, for I would have done something that impulsive. I take issue, however, with your other charge, for Lady Bolingbroke has a wonderfully austere black gown she wore when her mother died. Add a simple pearl necklace and I would have made an impeccably turned out housebreaker. Regardless, I owe you a debt of gratitude and I’m eager to settle up. How may I repay you?”

The correct response was on the tip of his tongue, but he could not bring himself to utter the suitably benign reply that courtesy required. No repayment
was
necessary, and yet there was so much he wanted from her—knowledge most of all, for she was like a dimly lit room and he longed to take a candle to every dark corner.

“Show me your studio,” he said.

Her eyes widened—with surprise, yes, for he could not imagine anyone had ever made the request before, but with trepidation as well. Her studio was not merely the private place where she worked, although she did toil there for hours in happy seclusion; it was also the secret heart of her.

Agatha was too clever not to know it.

“My studio?” she asked.

“Your studio,” he said, feeling an unexpected mix of surprise and trepidation himself. He had made the suggestion with his usual flippancy, and it was only now, when she seemed on the verge of refusing, that he realized how desperately he wanted her to agree. His need, he discovered with alarm, was twofold, for he didn’t just want to see her private place where she was most herself, he wanted her to trust him enough to let him see the private place where she was most herself. “Please show me your studio.”

She shook her head and, flustered, tried to answer. “Why would you… I really don’t think… I can’t just—” She broke off and looked him in the eyes, seemingly at a loss. “My mother would never approve.”

It did not take much imagination to conceive the horror with which Lady Bolingbroke would meet such a suggestion, and to some extent, he himself shared it. Nevertheless, he did something he had never before done in the whole of his twenty-nine-plus years: entreated a lady to behave indecorously. “You mentioned a window suitable for climbing through.”

Now she was shocked. His desire to see her studio was baffling but not entirely inexplicable. But this—desiring to see it so much he would climb through a window like a thief—was beyond anything fathomable.

For several seconds, Agatha stared at him aghast, then turned to her maid as if seeking assistance. Finding none, for Ellen was deeply engrossed in the stitching on the arm of her chair, she turned back to the viscount and examined him carefully for another few seconds before deciding to concede. “Very right,” she said with remarkable calm, “but you must not expect anything very grand. Despite my pleas for a light-filled atelier at the top of the house, my mother has consigned me to a gloomy closet near the kitchens. As you may guess, it’s a continual bone of contention between us. She contends too much sunlight will ruin my milky-white complexion, but in truth she hopes to discourage my painting.”

“I admire Lady Bolingbroke’s optimistic approach to achieving her goals, but that particular wish seems especially unlikely to come to pass,” he observed, wondering how she could speak of her mother’s trespasses with so little resentment. His own mother had done far less to thwart his happiness, and he resented her so much, he had barely seen her in the eight years since his father had died of consumption.

As fascinated as he was curious, Addleson put the question to her.

Agatha raised her left eyebrow and examined him with an air of amused cynicism. “
Little
resentment?” she asked mildly. “How would you describe Mr. Holyroodhouse, sir, if not as a seething heap of bitter indignation? I resent my mother so little I might irrevocably destroy her reputation as well as mine.”

Addleson conceded the point with a nod, for reckless behavior often accompanied indignant displeasure. “I stand corrected. You have taken resentment to an entirely new level.”

“Indeed, I have made a caricature of the emotion itself,” she said somewhat contemptuously. “What seems like calculation now, however, was unintentional then. In the beginning, I truly did not understand my motives in creating Mr. Holyroodhouse. I was several months into the ruse, and by the time I’d realized the truth, it was far too satisfying to desist. Three years later, I have no excuse. And what about you, Jonah?”

The viscount, who, though gratified to hear his name trip easily from her lips, knew he was not so facile as to let such a thing befuddle him. If he did not understand her question, it was because her question did not make sense. “You’ll have to elaborate, I’m afraid. What about me what, Agatha?”

“Your creation, Lord Addlewit,” she said simply.

“I rather thought Lord Addlewit was
your
creation,” he said with a teasing lilt to his voice. Despite his playful tone, her face remained serious, for she was too clever not to recognize the sally for the evasion it was. With a thoughtful frown, she silently watched him and waited for some version, any version, of the truth.

She would have to wait a very long time, Addleson thought, for he was not prepared to lay bare his soul. It was one thing for him to look at her secret heart and another thing entirely for her to look at his.

Having no cavalier reply and determined not to give a sincere one, he changed the subject and suggested a tavern called the Rusty Plinth for their assignation with Townshend.

“Clemmons would be new to London and would not have time to acquaint himself with its more respectable establishments. The Plinth is near the docks, so it’s likely he would have seen it when he first arrived, and it’s appropriately seedy. In addition, it’s large enough to house an entire regiment of Runners without feeling crowded and has a backroom for private dealings,” he explained, well aware that dodging the question was a craven response and perhaps the first act of cowardice he had ever indulged. “Townshend is unlikely to be familiar with it, which is another advantage.”

If she recognized the tactic for what it was, Agatha did not draw attention to it. Rather, she asked him what time he would advise for their meeting and deferred to his superior knowledge of depravity when he suggested two in the afternoon as ideal. He also proposed writing the letter from Mr. Clemmons, as he knew the exact words to provoke his attendance. Immediately, she expressed concern that Townshend would recognize the hand as unfamiliar, and before he could suggest a solution, insisted she could easily pilfer a sample from Petrie’s rooms, which were vacant during his absence.

“A man so reliant on his assistant’s services would not travel without at least one note or reminder from the fellow,” she observed thoughtfully.

One by one, they worked through the particulars of Mr. Luther Townshend’s downfall, with the viscount assuming responsibility for much, if not all, that had to be done: He would write the letter; he would talk to the magistrate; he would arrange for the Runners; he would coordinate with the Rusty Plinth; he would provide a carriage to convey her to the meeting; he would even secure a new wig for her disguise.

“I cannot speak to its comfort,” he said cautiously, “for it is a wig, and they are known to be itchy regardless of quality, but I can promise it will fit properly and not be speckled with ancient white powder.”

“An improvement, to be sure. Thank you, my lord,” she said stiffly, then rose to her feet and walked to the door. She was showing him out. “I trust we have covered every detail for tomorrow. I will, of course, have the note with Clemmons’s handwriting delivered to your residence as soon as I lay hands on it. Now, you still have much to do, so I will let you get on with it. I am, as always, grateful for your help.”

Her tone was cool—cool and polite and detached as if she were discussing the price of silk with the milliner. He understood her aloofness was a reaction to his earlier rebuff. He knew she had only adopted the same businesslike manner he himself had assumed when her question rattled him, yet he still resented her attempt to put distance between them. Just because he did not want to share the deeply personal truths of his own life did not mean he didn’t want to know every deeply personal truth of hers.

She had agreed to let him see her studio, and damn it, he wasn’t leaving until he did.

“The south window?” he asked, striding over to the doorway.

“The south window?”

“The window that is suited for climbing through,” he explained, amused by how confused she was. It seemed like an obvious question to him. “It is on the south side of the building? I assume so, as the access is better than the north side.”

The impulse was there to equivocate—he could see it in her eyes—but rather than try to put him off, she conceded with a detailed explanation of how to find the correct window and instructions for avoiding Mrs. Brookner’s sharp eye. “I’m not saying you must crawl, per se, but a low creep under the window sash would not be inappropriate. I will meet you there in fifteen minutes, which will leave me plenty of time to get the writing sample.” Then she called for Gregson and instructed him to show the viscount out.

Although his absence would be temporary, Addleson made a proper good-bye and even kissed Agatha on the hand in front of the butler, an obvious misstep made glaring by the horrified look the lady gave him. Smothering a smile, he sauntered down the front path, climbed onto his curricle and drove to the end of the block. Then he pulled his the carriage to the curb, climbed down again and asked his tiger to exercise the horses. Muttering about cracked nobs, Henry jumped down from his seat and took the reins.