The Bolingbroke Chit: A Regency Romance (5 page)

While Vinnie tried to decipher the meaning of this bizarre speech, Emma opened her mouth to object to its falsely conciliating tone. “Now, see here, you—”

“No, Emma,” the duke said with a firm shake of his head. “Calling my sister names, while no doubt gratifying, will not aid the situation. The same applies to you, Huntly. Now I suggest we all retire to the drawing room and have a sensible conversation.” Then he turned to Vinnie and added, “I fear your demonstration will have to be postponed for the moment, but we will reconvene at a later hour. I know we are all eager to see the Brill Method Improvised Elasticized Hose in action.”

If Vinnie had found it embarrassing to have such a large crowd assembled on her behalf once, it paled in comparison with her mortification at the thought of it being assembled again. She did not, however, want to appear churlish or ungrateful, so she agreed to this plan and removed to the drawing room in the wake of her sister, whose sotto voce complaints about Louisa were clearly meant to be heard by everyone.

Once they were settled in the drawing room—a formal affair with classic English furniture arrayed in tasteful colors—the dowager invited Louisa to explain herself. “And choose your words carefully, for as you yourself have pointed out, this is not the zoo. Don’t rattle the cages.”

Louisa sat in a wingback, her shoulders stiff and straight against the chair’s maroon leather. “Of course, Mama, I always speak with forethought and circumspection, even if others don’t. I could, of course, take offense at how willingly my family chose to believe the worst of me, as I have done nothing to earn such distrust, but I will rise above the insult and explain that my objection is not rooted in Miss Harlow’s unsuitability but Mr. Holyroodhouse’s offensive drawing.”

Huntly laughed as he recalled the lampoon the famous caricaturist had drawn depicting the members of the British Horticultural Society as flowers at the mercy of a grotesque woman who looked vaguely like Vinnie. She was clutching the tulip bearing the Marquess of Huntly’s face in her hands over a caption that read “Plucked!”

“I appreciate your concern, Louisa, but I’ve long accepted my situation and don’t cavil. In fact, I enjoy being plucked by Miss Harlow,” the marquess announced with a warm look at his fiancée, who promptly turned a shade of red so bright, she would have glowed if someone had extinguished all the candles.

“That is old news. Literally,” Louisa announced, with a cluck of her tongue as she laid the paper on the table for everyone to see. It featured a new drawing by the talented Mr. Holyroodhouse, one in which the soaring rotunda of the British Horticultural Society, where just two nights before Vinnie had made the presentation that had earned her acceptance, was transformed into a ballroom. Surrounding Vinnie, who stood in the center, were the twenty-six members of the horticultural society clamoring to sign her dance card. Beneath the picture were the words
The British Matrimonial Society.

In an instant, the color drained from Vinnie’s face and she inhaled sharply as she absorbed the impact of the abuse. Unlike her younger sister, she wasn’t accustomed to being the subject of mockery. Before she had decided to pursue membership in the society, the most unconventional thing she had done was plant narcissus next to
Allium cepa
, a daring move that could result in an upset stomach if an untrained eye mistook a daffodil bulb for an onion.

Now she had been held up for public ridicule twice in as many weeks and she realized with sudden clarity that it would never stop. Like a naïve child, she had assumed her notoriety was only a temporary condition, a nine days’ wonder swiftly supplanted by the next sensation, but she had failed to account for Mr. Holyroodhouse’s bottom line. He was an ink-stained fiend, to be sure, and as long as jeering images of her sold prints, he would continue to produce them.

When the first drawing appeared, she had responded with her usual practicality and attempted to withdraw her candidacy to the society. Without question, she had been mortified to see herself portrayed as a monstrous harridan with jabby elbows, but it was the ruthless treatment of Huntly that proved the decisive stroke. She could not allow him to be the subject of so much derision. Unaware at the time of the depth of her feelings for him, she did not know why the notion so unsettled her, only that it did.

Unimpressed by her grand gesture, Huntly had promptly informed her that she would not be withdrawing. Instead, she would make her presentation to the society one week hence and the matter of her application would be decided by a vote, not by a toad-eating dandiprat with a pen.

Indeed it had been decided, somehow in her favor, and Vinnie, who’d had no real expectation of gaining admittance to the esteemed institution, found that her delight in the accomplishment had lasted—she glanced at the clock over the mantel—precisely twenty-six hours and forty-three minutes.

Such a small window of enjoyment, she thought now, as she contemplated the usefulness of trying to resign. Huntly would not allow it, she knew that. Neither would her sister, who had compiled dossiers on all the society’s members in order to give Vinnie a tactical advantage. Trent would oppose it, too, for he had long been her champion and had done everything possible to advance her cause. Even the dowager, who considered membership to the British Horticultural Society to be an absurd affectation for a woman, would disavow any suggestion of quitting. Having achieved her masculine goal, Vinnie should at least have the fortitude to see it through.

They were all looking at her now, waiting for her response, and as much as she wanted to concede the field to the unscrupulous Mr. Holyroodhouse, she resolved to hold her ground. For weeks, she had been trying to convince her intrepid sister that she had the same indomitable spirit, and crumbling at the first available opportunity would hardly demonstrate that point.

Smiling brightly, though she knew the color had yet to return to her cheeks, Vinnie said, “I am happy to see my elbows were given fairer shrift this time. They are not so pointy that I’m at risk of eviscerating passersby on the sidewalk.”

“Yes,” Emma said with a thoughtful nod, “but the bump on your nose is larger.”

Huntly agreed with both assessments and said, “Your lips are thinner.”

“And you have a charming hump,” Trent added.

His mother scoffed at his absurd observation. “That’s not a hump, my dear, it’s Huntly’s hand. Your confusion is understandable, however, as it looks like a joint of ham.”

Trent leaned in closer for a better look. “So it is. Sorry, old man, but your fingers would be vastly improved with a regular regimen of exercise. I could refer you to Gentleman Jackson for a program.”

Huntly held up both his hands for the room to examine. “I appreciate your concern, Alex, but as you can see, the joint-of-ham aspect is merely artistic license.”

The dowager nodded approvingly. “Now that we’ve resolved that pressing matter, let’s ring for tea. Lavinia, could you please do the honor, as I know your heathen sister will open the door and holler for the servants like a chimney sweep.”

As Emma protested this characterization on the grounds that chimney sweeps do not have servants, Louisa emitted a low squeal, as if she were a bagpipe slowly losing all its air. The sound grew louder and louder, increasing in pitch and vigor, until it was an ear-piercing shriek.

Her mother, who was in the middle of chastising Emma on her pedantry, broke off her speech to stare at Louisa in surprise. “I hardly think—”

“No,” her daughter said angrily. “
I
hardly think! I came here out of the kindness of my heart because I do not want the people I care about to be the object of censure and ridicule. I have other responsibilities that require my attention, including but not limited to the rearing of two brilliant but strong-minded children, but I put them aside out of concern for my family. And for my efforts, I get talk of ham and climbing boys. You are all mad. Yes, Mama, I said
all
,” she added defiantly. “I used to be able to depend on your good sense and reliable disposition, but in recent months, I’ve noticed a frivolous streak that I find quite discomforting. I am not implying it is my sister-in-law’s fault, for I had seen indications of it before her, most particularly when you insisted on training a parrot to sing ‘La Marseillaise,’ but it has become more marked in the months since Trent’s marriage and for that I don’t believe she can be held entirely unaccountable.”

Although Louisa had expressed this thought in many varied ways during the past seven months, it was the first time she cited the dowager’s parrot as evidence of previous frivolity and Emma insisted on knowing the full story: how, what and, for God’s sake, why.

“It was for Prinny’s birthday,” her mother-in-law explained. “Sir Reginald—you know how droll he can be—noted that the French national anthem sounded precisely like the squawk of a parrot, which Prinny found highly amusing, so naturally I was obliged to demonstrate the truth of the observation. I must confess the results were mixed, for the parrot’s tone wasn’t quite as nasally as—”

The thought went unfinished as Louisa shrieked for a second time. Her tone was more forceful still and could be categorized as an outright scream.

Once again, she had the full attention of the room, and not wanting to risk losing it to another inconsequential diversion (though the embarrassment she felt over the parrot incident could hardly be described as inconsequential), she said, “Although I am happy for Vinnie and Huntly and offer them my felicitations, you must comprehend why we cannot announce their engagement.”

Huntly smiled and assured her that wouldn’t be a problem, for they had no intention of announcing their engagement. “We plan to marry by special license as soon as it can be arranged,” he said, “and will send notice of the wedding to the papers.”

Louisa’s sigh of relief was quickly supplanted by a gasp of horror. “Absolutely not! Miss Harlow is just out of black gloves. Her fiancé died only seven months ago. Every sensibility would be offended by such a hasty marriage.”

No, Vinnie thought, not
every,
for her sensibilities were quite fine with it. Her late fiancé, Sir Waldo Windbourne, was a villain and a traitor who had sold England’s secrets to the highest bidder and maimed her brother, Roger, in a failed murder attempt. The only reason Sir Waldo had courted her in the first place was to gain access to her brother’s secret papers, for he knew Roger worked as a spy for the Home Office and hoped to ascertain confidential information.

Emma had taken an immediate dislike of Windbourne. She’d found him pompous and verbose, a combination that led her to call him Sir Windbag, and she’d despised the condescension with which he had treated her twin’s skill with plants, as if it were a children’s toy to be abandoned at the first opportunity. Her antipathy had been based on nothing save personal preference, though she would argue it was intuition, not opinion, but her instincts proved remarkably accurate. It was she who discovered Windbourne’s treachery, and in the most hoydenish act of a very hoydenish career, she’d chased him through the countryside to intercept a message that could have proven fatal to the future of England.

She’d achieved her goal in the end but not before risking her life and ultimately her sister’s, and it had been Vinnie, who, mere seconds from being gutted by a fish knife when Windbourne broke into their town house in the middle of the night, shot her fiancé dead with a pistol.

Although she had suffered no physical harm in the confrontation, Vinnie had not emerged from the ordeal entirely unscathed. Her confidence had taken a pummeling as well as any faith in her own judgment. Clearly, she could not be relied upon to recognize a black-hearted villain when he turned up on her doorstep feigning adoration. Adjusting to the fact that she had taken a life also required some effort. She felt no guilt over the deed, for it had been a matter of survival—her own or Windbourne’s—but nor could she dismiss it entirely. It was now part of who she was: Miss Lavinia Harlow, murderess.

And not just a murderess—a liar, as well, for she had had to pretend to grieve the death of her fiancé, lest the
ton
discover the horrible truth. For six long months, she had to wear the willow for a man she despised.

The truth had been covered up to protect Vinnie, yes, but it was also a state secret, for none of the actors could be revealed without endangering lives or embarrassing the Crown. The list of people who knew the truth was very short—Vinnie and Emma, their brother and his wife, the duke and his cousin Philip—and had recently expanded to include Huntly. To no one’s surprise, the Home Office was determined to keep the group as small as possible.

The need for secrecy created an intolerable situation that was hardly conducive to forming a lasting attachment, and yet somehow in the midst of her fake mourning, she had developed a real tendre for the Marquess of Huntly. She had not expected to. In the wake of her disastrous relationship with Windbourne, she had not believed it even possible. That the marquess returned her regard seemed like nothing less than a miracle, and she would not deny herself one moment of happiness to satisfy an empty social convention.

“I appreciate your concern,” Vinnie said calmly, “but we are resolved to go forward with our plan.”

Louisa stared at her in shock. “Resolved to go forward with social ostracism? My dear girl, think of what you’re saying.”

“That’s enough, Louisa,” her mother said sharply. “You have made your point, and everyone in the room has heard it. Personally, I believe you are overstating the matter slightly, for no one would dare ostracize the Marquess of Huntly’s wife. And don’t forget who her sister is. To be sure, Emma is a confirmed scapegrace, but she’s still the Duchess of Trent and she has acquitted herself reasonably since her marriage. I don’t think anyone would dare give Miss Harlow the cut direct, and if they did, they would have to answer to me.”