The Bolingbroke Chit: A Regency Romance (8 page)

To be sure, his rambling complaint about the unsettling sartorial choices of the
ton
had been absurd, but it was also entirely true. The waistcoat worn by the Count de Fézensac to Lord Morton’s ball
had
almost caused him to bump into a table. The color combination appalled his simple but elegant taste, and he couldn’t conceive why any right-thinking human being would top the atrocity with sequined buttons. Had nature not been sufficiently offended by the marriage of chartreuse and lilac?

The senseless babble had had the desired effect of disconcerting the renowned curmudgeon, and Addleson had watched in delight as Lady Agatha’s countenance underwent a series of changes: annoyed, disgusted, angry and, finally, the deliberate expression she wore now.

One after another, the emotions had flitted across her face, and Addleson, recognizing each as it passed, marveled at the utter transparency of her countenance. No wonder Lady Agony chose to keep her features in a habitual scowl of dislike; anything else would reveal her innermost feelings.

“My lord is mistaken,” Lady Agatha said flatly. “I know nothing of sand dunes.”

Far from drooping in disappointment, Mr. Petrie’s already bright smile grew impossibly brighter. Addleson’s own grin widened as he realized the blathering American was too self-important to wonder how the viscount had overestimated Lady Agatha’s knowledge of sand dunes so egregiously.

“Ah, an initiate!” Petrie said, relishing the prospect. “It’s always a pleasure to meet a newcomer to the subject of sand dunes. To be completely candid, I must own a jealousy of your ignorance, for there is so much wonderful and amazing information you have yet to acquire. You are as a blank slate. It has been many decades since I was a newcomer to anything, and I recall the state fondly. We will start your education at the very beginning, so you don’t miss any of the important details—the beginning being, of course, the grain of sand.”

“I have no interest in sand dunes,” she announced, her shoulders stiff with impatience.

Unperturbed by this additional proof of misleading information, the naturalist merely shook his head sadly. “A common occurrence, in my experience, especially among your compatriots. No doubt you suffered through hours and hours of dreary lectures on geography in the schoolroom, which dampened all interest in the subject, if not the entire process of learning. Few governesses are trained in the finer points of pedagogy, and most are incapable of conveying information in an interesting and useful way. Usually, they are content with the mere recitation of facts, which has the unfortunate, though of course predictable, effect of damaging the student’s ability to think. It’s much better to engage your pupil in what is called the Socratic method, which employs questions as a didactic device. For this reason, you can be assured that when I teach you about sand dunes, you will have a great deal of interest.”

Addleson had to choke back a snort of disbelief when Mr. Petrie announced himself an adherent to the Socratic method, for the man did not listen to questions, let alone ask them, but Lady Agony was not as polite. Her attempts to interrupt him, however, were futile, and she finally settled for speaking over him until he deigned to listen.

“Mr. Petrie, I cannot believe you are familiar with the Socratic method, for your long-winded discourse indicates an inability to hear anyone speak save for yourself, and I can assure you with one hundred percent certainty that the only dreary lecture I’ve ever had to suffer through in my entire life is this one.”

Admittedly, Mr. Petrie had heard only a portion of this unfavorable speech—his own thoughts having concluded about midway through—but the part he did hear was fairly damning. Nevertheless, he took no offense. Rather, he just shook his head with a fond smile and said to Addleson, “Women! Are they not the most darling creatures? So emotional! We try to enlighten them, but they are far too sensitive for the rigors of education. Yet I believe it’s our sacred duty to at least try to provide them with some edification, for even a dog can learn how to roll over and sit up.” Now he turned to his host’s daughter. “Don’t you agree, Lady Agatha?”

Her ladyship declined to answer Mr. Petrie’s query directly, but the manner in which she abruptly turned her back on him and walked away implied strong disagreement. Addleson did not blame her, for it was never flattering to be compared with a domesticated animal and found wanting.

Mr. Petrie was likewise forgiving of Lady Agatha’s behavior and nodded with sympathy. “She is overwrought, the dear girl, which is hardly surprising. My arrival has been a very exciting event for everyone and has caused a minor uproar in the household. Sadly, there was a mix-up with my luggage at the docks, which created all sorts of upheaval, and the first room assigned to me was unsuitable to my needs. I’m sure Lady Agatha understands the need for the temporary disruption, for she is, I think, a credit to Lord Bolingbroke. One hopes for an excess of sensibility in one’s daughter. There is nothing more off-putting than a masculine female.”

“I don’t know,” Addleson said consideringly. “I can think of at least one thing.”

But the unknown American naturalist was as inured to implication as he was to interruption or insult. “Lord Bolingbroke has been very gracious to me. When I received an invitation to speak at the British Horticultural Society, I had thought—”

Addleson did not care what Mr. Petrie thought. In fact, if he heard one more of his well-considered opinions, he might very well bash the loquacious American over the head with the nearest object, which—he glanced around quickly—seemed to be a rather delicate blue-and-white vase.

For the sake of Lord Bolingbroke’s pottery, the viscount hastily made his excuses. “I must check on Lady Agatha. As you have observed, she’s overwrought.”

“Of course, of course,” Mr. Petrie said, immediately perceiving the wisdom of this plan. “Emotionally distraught women are unstable and are likely to do harm to themselves or others. I know this well, for I have an irascible old aunt who can wield a cane with unsettling authority. The secret is to use a gentle and calming voice, as if speaking to a small child. Perhaps I should come with you.”

The viscount was tempted—so very, very tempted—to say yes just for the pleasure of watching Lady Agatha break the blue-and-white vase over Mr. Petrie’s head, for he could not imagine any other response to his offensively soothing tone. It was rather like a prophesy that fulfilled itself: Treat a grown woman like a child and she will react like a child.

Even Addleson, whose sense of humor was frequently described as perverse, knew better than to subject a lady to that insult, especially in the sanctity of her own home. “No,” he said firmly. “I thank you but no.”

Mr. Petrie, who was unaccustomed to either being refused or listening to other people, immediately began to plot their strategy, suggesting that he approach Lady Agatha first. “Observe my method and adjust your own accordingly,” he said as he followed the viscount across the room.

As amused as he was exasperated by the man’s persistence—or was it resilience, a distinctly American trait—Addleson stopped abruptly, glanced around quickly and promptly settled on Mr. Abingdon as his victim. Edward was only a few feet away, well within ear-cocking distance, and that was exactly what the viscount did, tipping his head to the right, as if overhearing an irresistible tidbit. Then he turned to Mr. Petrie and said, “As you appear to have the matter entirely in hand, I shall let you comfort Lady Agatha, whilst I share my knowledge of sunset hyssop with that gentleman over there who just claimed to know nothing of it.”

At once, Mr. Petrie was off, darting across the room with his magnifying glass held high like a flag, his eyes aglow with excitement. His impatience was so great, he didn’t bother to wait for Addleson to finish his sentence or for him to indicate the interested party. Instead, he waylaid the first person to cross his path and accosted him with facts about
Agastache rupestris.
Waldegrave’s confusion was apparent, but the young lord, perceiving himself complimented by the older man’s attentions, immediately fell in with the impromptu tutoring session and examined the root system of the flower with an interested smile.

Addleson watched the happy exchange with relief, for he had begun to despair of ever shaking off the cloying American. He imagined himself at home in his bedchamber, Girard laying out his nightclothes with careful consideration as Mr. Petrie, his lecture unceasing, detailed the virtues of North American flowers. Shivering with distaste, Addleson decided it was time to escape rather than risk another incident and immediately sought out his host.

In rapid succession, he thanked Lady Bolingbroke for her gracious hospitality, assured Lord Bolingbroke that he would not attend Mr. Petrie’s address at the horticultural society in ten days’ time, arranged to meet his cousin at White’s later in the evening, complimented the Earl of Moray on the towering achievement that was his cravat and neatly sidestepped Mr. Harrington Corduroy, whose polka-dot waistcoat would have precluded him from conversation with the viscount, even if his meandering discourse had not. Then Addleson exited the parlor though the door to the right.

He sense of accomplishment at having skillfully eluded further conversation was sharply undermined by an unexpected loss of balance. He lurched, then wobbled and teetered, before steadying himself with a firm hand against the wall. Astonished by the awkwardness, for Viscount Addleson never faltered—not literally, not figuratively—he stared blankly at his feet for a moment, his eyes slowly focusing on the rug. He had tripped over a frayed edge, which was, he realized, hardly surprising. It seemed inevitable that a man so passionately devoted to plants would let his house run to seed.

Addleson impatiently straightened his shoulders and lifted his head to find himself once again the object of Lady Agatha Bolingbroke’s steady gaze. Naturally, he was disconcerted to realize he was being observed, a development he sought to disguise by striding confidently up to her. He stopped a little closer than was suitable and noted with surprise how firmly she held her ground. Other ladies would have taken a cautionary step back; she inched forward.

“I trust you are recovered from your fall,” she said mildly.

Too mildly, Addleson thought, fully aware that her overt consideration was actually covert mockery. He was not, as a rule, a person given to wild surmise, but he couldn’t entirely squelch the suspicion that she had deliberately arranged the carpet to bring about his mishap. It was absurd, of course, for it would require divine omniscience to know though which door her intended victim would leave the room.

“I am, yes, fully recovered,” he said, resisting the urge to correct her, as his momentary bobble did not quite rise to the level of a fall. “And I trust you’ve recovered your wit. Mr. Petrie must have addled you a great deal if you were unable to formulate a reply.”

Addleson did not have to see the flicker in her eyes to realize how much Lady Agatha despised the suggestion that there was something, anything, she was unable to do. It was immediately apparent in every line of her body—her stiffened shoulders, her raised head, her narrowed gaze.

“On the contrary,” she said, her tone as underwhelmingly bland as before, “I found him to be unworthy of the effort. I assure you, I am quite capable of offering a cutting reply when necessary.”

Addleson’s smile flashed quick and bright. “I am very flattered, then, that you don’t find it necessary now. I shall take that as a compliment.”

Oh, Lady Agony did not like that—the acceptance of a compliment she had not offered. With deliberate calmness, she looked him in the eye and explained she could not in all good conscience abandon an elder in his time of need. “Decency requires that I remain long enough to establish your welfare. Having ascertained that information, I’m now free to leave. Do be careful on your way out, my lord, as the threshold at the front door is a little steep. Perhaps Gregson can lend you his arm. You must not be too ashamed to ask for help.”

With that parting barb, delivered with a glimmer in her eye, Lady Agatha curtsied with all the practiced charm of a girl in her first season and returned to the soiree. When she came to the worn patch of rug he had tripped over, she stepped with exaggerated care and with what Addleson would swear was a grin on her face. He saw it only briefly—just a fleeting glimpse before her expression assumed its customary scowl—but in that moment, Addleson thought she was beautiful. The shine in her eyes complemented the glow in her cheeks, making the sharp lines of her face seem soft and perfect and lovely.

Struck by it, Addleson watched her pass through the crowd, her blue dress darting to the other side of the room, where she stood apart from the assembly like the wallflower she was.

No, the viscount thought, not like she was but like she pretended to be. Lady Agatha Bolingbroke was no shrinking violet, excluded from the assembly on account of crippling timidity. He had never met a less shy young lady, and she certainly did not suffer from awkwardness or discomfiture. If she was separate from the company, it was because she chose to set herself apart.

The question, of course, was why.

As the daughter of a well-to-do peer, she had everything to recommend her: modest fortune, excellent pedigree, circumspect upbringing. Granted, her looks were unconventional, the chiseled features at odds with the ideals of classical beauty, but her appearance wasn’t off-putting or displeasing. Indeed, there was something oddly appealing about the unexpected originality of her countenance.