The Other Harlow Girl

by Lynn Messina

  The deputy director went on for some time, complaining about not only Vinnie but also about women, parliament and the appalling ignorance of the average visitor to Kew Gardens. A great number of subjects had earned his ire in six decades of life, and he seemed content to voice all of them in the Marquess of Huntly’s drawing room.

  While Townshend ranted, Huntly tried to make sense of his revelations, for it seemed inconceivable that the Lavinia Harlow he knew would try to coerce anyone, let alone an elderly gentleman. Recalling their exchange at Hatchard’s, he conceded that she had a piquant sense of humor and would not hesitate to tweak an ego if she felt it needed deflating. He also knew she was stubborn, and he felt that some, if not all, of her desire to become a member of the society was spurred by his desire that she not become one. During their dance, he’d felt her back stiffen with contrary resolve with every reasonable suggestion he made.

  These failings, however, were minor—and, indeed, he could not quite bring himself to even think of them as failings. He admired her pluck and liked her sense of humor, and when he remembered her in Mr. Brill’s office, asking with the dignity of a queen to be allowed to take full responsibility for her actions, he was in awe of her bravery.

  He could do nothing save grant her request, but listening to her take the blame for something she was hardly responsible for nearly broke his heart.

  It was almost comical that she thought the scene in the office was her fault. True, she had initiated the event with her kiss, but that chaste peck had been as sweet as it was innocent. He understood human nature and the sometimes horrible inadequacy of words. It was just like she said: The kiss extended from an overwhelming combination of emotions—happiness, excitement, gratitude—that could not be expressed with mere speech. It required an action, and he, being a bounder and a cad, took unconscionable advantage of that. He had known what he was doing the entire time, pulling her deeper and deeper into the web of desire because he couldn’t bear the alternative: that she didn’t want him as much as he wanted her. All afternoon, while she was in the distillation lab with Mr. Brill, her face vibrating with excitement as he tinkered with his formula, Huntly had felt his desire growing. He had tried to stay aloof but could not resist being drawn in by her warmth.

  He knew she was mourning the death of a beloved fiancé. He had seen the way she responded to mentions of Sir Windbourne and felt the connection to be deep and abiding. For that reason, she could not be held responsible for her actions. No doubt she missed the bond they’d shared as a couple and, when she felt that overwhelming gratitude toward him, mistook that closeness for intimacy. Realizing he was a poor substitute for her beloved, she had thrown off the heavy weight of passion and conversed easily with him in the carriage. Such a thing probably happened all the time with widows.

  But it never happened to him before. Huntly could not remember a time when he desired a woman to the brink of madness and had to let her go.

  He’d made a significant misstep in the carriage—he’d known it as soon as she spoke in that chilly voice—but surely he could be forgiven for not thinking clearly. How could he possibly keep his wits while confined in a small space with the woman whom he had nearly ravished a half hour before? The provocation was too great, and all he was thinking was that it had to end. She couldn’t possibly join the society and torture him on a regular basis. No, the only way forward was to avoid her entirely, and convincing her not to apply was vital to that happening.

  He knew how his proposal had sounded to her, and she was right to be offended. His intentions, upon arriving at her town house that morning, had been pure. He had thought of nothing but making amends. It was only after, when he realized how untenable further contact would be, that he devised the other motive. But the sole reason he suggested it was he had genuinely thought she would rather work on her invention. A year of meetings of the British Horticultural Society could not possibly give her as much joy as a single afternoon at Brill & Company.

  Although Huntly thought he knew women fairly well—with his unusual eyes and his even features, he’d been petted and adored by ladies from an indecently early age—he admitted he didn’t know the first thing about Lavinia Harlow. She had been a mystery to him from the moment they’d met, when she rambled on nonsensically about the duke’s staff. He still had no idea what made her invent a fictional housekeeper, but he didn’t doubt she had her reasons.

  Recalling that encounter and others, he decided Miss Harlow most likely did have a dossier on the members of the horticultural society, and he interrupted Townshend’s diatribe against pigeons to ask what his file said.

  The question, which seemed to Huntly to be the logical follow-up to the declaration that he had a file, disconcerted Townshend, either because he was so in thrall to his own ideas or because he hadn’t planned on sharing the information. “Well, you see, it’s really a minor…certainly nothing to, uh, kick up a fuss over,” he explained. “Entirely false, I assure you, entirely false. No crime has been committed.”

  Unsure how to respond to this strange speech but seeking to put his friend’s mind at ease, he said, “If that is the case, it seems you have nothing to worry about. I beg you to put it out of your head.”

  Townshend sighed loudly, closed his eyes and shook his head. “The charge of plagiarism is accurate,” he announced boldly, then opened one eye to see how the marquess responded to this confession.

  Huntly drew his brows in confusion and surprise, for he had read Townshend’s outstanding text several times and found it very useful in his own research of different species of flora. Botanicus was a concise and articulate resource for anyone who enjoyed the study and cultivation of flowers.

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand,” Huntly said.

  His friend seemed to shrink into the settee, though, with his substantial middle, he couldn’t make himself disappear entirely. “Writing a volume as compendious and significant as Botanicus is a remarkable endeavor, and I am the deputy director of Kew Gardens, a responsibility that requires a large amount of my time. To compensate for these disadvantages, I relied on descriptions of flora from books previously published on the subject. As you know, it is standard procedure for authors to employ other authors’ work in the production of their own. Shakespeare used passages from Plutarch’s Lives of the Noble Greeks and Romans for his plays and has been lauded for it,” he said defensively, his spine stiffening as he warmed to his subject. “I have done no differently, and yet Miss Harlow is trying to cast my innocent act as a crime. She seems to feel that I should have come up with all the words in my book entirely on my own and failing that, should have given credit to my source material. Have you ever heard anything as absurd?”

  Although Huntly had indeed heard many things not only as absurd but also more absurd, he wisely kept his own counsel. Instead, he assured Townshend that he had his continued respect and would no doubt retain the respect of every member of the British Horticultural Society.

  Taking little comfort from this statement, Townshend looked at him bleakly and said, “But the Society for the Advancement of Horticultural Knowledge would delight in humiliating me. They’re a monstrous throng of heathens who have no understanding of scholarly procedure and will make hay over this information. Our entire organization is at risk if word of this got out. It is not myself I am thinking of but each and every one of us. It is simply imperative that you talk to Miss Harlow and bring an end to her machinations.”

  Now Huntly’s spine stiffened. “I?” he asked, lifting an eyebrow.

  “You have brought disgrace on the society with your cavalier invitation to Miss Harlow. Yes,” he added forcefully, “I said cavalier, for although I do not know what prompted the invitation, I know it was not made in earnest. You were having a little joke, which is, of course, your prerogative, but it will not be at my expense. Now, sir, you are obligated as a gentleman to undo the damage you have caused and I suggest you do it at once.”

  As much as Huntly wanted to re
sist Townshend’s directive, he knew the problem was entirely his fault and that, yes, the onus fell on him to fix it. Only a week before, he had resolved to avoid Miss Harlow as much as possible and now was in the damnable position of having to call on her. As Townshend had said, he had no choice.

  He knew this development should trouble him, for just the thought of seeing Miss Harlow again brought the image of her in Mr. Brill’s office searingly forth in his mind, but he was more sanguine. He had done the proper thing and made the virtuous resolution to avoid her, and now matters beyond his control were throwing them together again. He was powerless to resist fate.

  “I will speak to her posthaste and resolve this matter,” Huntly assured his visitor, “but I urge you to calm yourself. There’s nothing to be accomplished by getting aggravated, for you are hardly at point non plus. As you say, the practice is common and no doubt members of the Society for the Advancement of Horticultural Knowledge have done it themselves.”

  At this statement, Townshend perked up. Indeed, he rose to his feet with considerably more dexterity than one would expect to find in a man of his age and size. “Of course! You are a genius, Huntly, a true genius, and I apologize if I let my concern rule my mind. I will do exactly as you suggest. Thank you.”

  Although the marquess was happy to accept the designation of genius, he preferred to know what for. “You’re welcome, though I’m not sure what I suggested.”

  Townshend, who was marching toward the drawing room door, halted with his hand on the knob. “A preemptive strike against the enemy, of course! The members of the Society for the Advancement of Horticultural Knowledge are probably guilty…er, familiar with the practice as well. Therefore, all I need to do to ensure the society is not a threat is locate a book in which one of its members plagiarized…er, relied on an earlier work. I must begin at once. Thank you again, Huntly, for your wise counsel.”

  Huntly knew it would take days, if not weeks, for Townshend to trace a half dozen texts back to their original sources, assuming, of course, that they had original sources, but he thought his friend would be better off if his hours were consumed with research rather than worry. Realizing the monumental nature of the task, he wondered how Miss Harlow had uncovered the truth about Botanicus so quickly and made a mental note to ask her.

  During the half hour he had been bracketed in with Townshend, three letters from other society members had arrived, begging an interview with him immediately.

  Miss Harlow’s work, he thought without heat. He knew he should be more appalled by her behavior and some part of him was properly horrified that any gently bred lady would stoop to such vulgar tactics, but mostly he admired her spine. It was he who had embroiled her in the membership dispute—she had not come knocking on their door, demanding entrance—and somehow insulted her with each new request that she back down. He liked to think his intentions were always good, but his behavior since he’d met Miss Harlow had been too erratic for him to properly understand his motives. She unnerved him in a way he’d assumed no woman could, interrupting his thoughts when he was engaged in important activities such as cataloging specimens from his voyage.

  Following through on his promise to address the problem right away, Huntly promptly informed Fleming he was going out and turned down the offer of a carriage, for it was quicker if he simply walked the few blocks to Grosvenor Square.

  When he arrived at the duke’s town house, he discovered that the duke was away from home, a development that didn’t affect him in the least, and that the dowager was not, a development that required a minor detour from his purpose, for he could not deny a visit with the woman who had raised him as much as his own parents had.

  As he had been only eleven when his parents died in a carriage accident, he could not recall them clearly, except as benign spirits who sometimes visited the nursery with sweet words and treats. Jane, Duchess of Trent, was not the doting type either, but she found the treatment of her orphaned neighbor, who had been sent home to live with servants when he proved too unruly for elderly relations, to be insupportable and arranged for the boy to attend Eton with her own son. During breaks and holidays, she insisted he stay with them rather than at his own estate, which marched along their north border.

  For these considerations, Huntly was eternally grateful, for there was nothing more lonely and desolate than a family seat with no family.

  Their comfortable tête-à-tête was disturbed after twenty minutes, when Caruthers announced the arrival of Lady Britten.

  “She is planning the come out of her youngest daughter and asked for my guidance on a variety of important matters,” the dowager confided. “Her taste in presentation gowns is a little gaudy, and I hope today to steer her toward something simpler and of course with fewer white feathers. Two or three plumes in one’s hair are charming, but there’s nothing elegant about wearing an entire ostrich.”

  As there were few things more pleasing to the dowager than overriding the poor sense of others, Huntly knew she was in for a delightful afternoon.

  He made his good-byes quickly in an attempt to avoid Lady Britten in the hallway, but the mother of four daughters sensed there was a bachelor underfoot and stalled in her removal of her pelisse in hopes of greeting him. For several minutes, he nodded politely as her ladyship detailed her daughters’ love of flowers. Amazingly, all four of them were floraphiles, which, of course, revealed that they were indeed not, for the proper word was anthophile.

  The dowager very kindly put him out of his misery by insisting Lady Britten join her for tea immediately, for she was parched and could not possibly partake while a guest was still standing.

  As soon as the door was closed, he asked Caruthers where he could find Miss Harlow and was immediately directed to Emma’s study. He didn’t know what he expected to find upon opening the door but certainly not the Harlow twins bent over the mahogany desk plotting strategy like generals in a war. Fascinated by the uncensored glimpse into how their minds worked, he stood in the doorway without announcing his presence. Neither young lady seemed to notice.

  “What is the status on Bolingbroke?” Emma asked as she picked up a chess pawn with the baron’s name written on it.

  “Defiant but wavering,” Vinnie reported matter-of-factly. “He is not convinced that the influence of the Harlow Hoyden, however well married, will help his daughter. But Lady Bolingbroke feels the dowager’s ball firmly established your position and is in transports over the prospect of the new duchess taking Lady Agatha Bolingbroke for a ride in Hyde Park in her curricle.”

  Emma nodded thoughtfully. “Maybe we should up our offer to two rides in Hyde Park and a coze at Mrs. Douglas-Home’s rout on Monday.”

  Vinnie glanced at her quizzically. “I thought you were not attending Mrs. Douglas-Home’s rout.”

  Her sister shrugged. “I wasn’t. I find all routs to be dreadfully dull and none of my hosts seem capable of arranging proper ventilation, but it’s a small sacrifice and I’m happy to make it.”

  “Well, I cannot accept it,” Vinnie said with a firm shake of her head, “for you will no doubt do something outrageous to relieve your boredom and get into a whole new scrape, for which the dowager will hold me responsible. Let’s abandon the rout idea and invite her to go to the theater with us in a few weeks. It’s Merchant of Venice, which means you will be thoroughly occupied and won’t cause a bubble bath.”

  “Although I take offense at your insultingly poor opinion of my ability to withstand boredom—was I not a pattern card of correct behavior at Lady Ilchester’s card party last night?—I find your reasoning sound and agree. A theater box provides Lady Agatha with a greater opportunity to be seen with the Duchess of Trent. Her mother will be pleased and will sway her husband. Very well, then,” she said, selecting another pawn, “onto Mr. Edward Lincoln.”

  From his perch in the doorway, Huntly was too amazed by their efficient calculations to decide if he was horrified or impressed. Their summation of the Bolingbrokes was ent
irely accurate, and he could easily imagine the discussion in which Lady Bolingbroke convinced Lord Bolingbroke that their plain-faced daughter’s chances would be greatly improved by an association with the popular Duchess of Trent.

  Watching Emma twirl the chess piece marked Lincoln, Huntly realized it didn’t matter how he felt on the matter—what they were doing was wrong, for they held the lives of real people in their hands.

  With four long strides, he was at the desk. “I apologize for the intrusion, but I really must protest.”

  Emma looked up and grinned hugely at the marquess. “Lord Huntly, your timing is impeccable,” she announced, as if he were there by invitation or even command. “We were just discussing the estimable Mr. Lincoln and would welcome your opinion on how to proceed. Our research turned up two helpful facts. One: that he is horse mad but cannot find a stud worthy to mate with his beloved mare, Daisyfield. Two: that he is a devoted boxer but has been unable to attain private instruction from Gentleman Jackson. Which do you think bothers him more?”

  At Huntly’s stunned looked, Vinnie rushed to explain, “That is to say, for which problem should we offer him a solution? If it were I, I’d prefer the former, for I think one has a closer relationship with one’s trusty steed than with one’s boxing instructor. But that’s why we are so glad to see you, for perhaps as females we are underestimating the importance of an athletic instructor. Please advise us.”

  Although the marquess knew they were teasing him, for there was no way they could possibly be sincere in asking him how best to manipulate a fellow society member, he was too fascinated to resist answering. “Ordinarily, I’d agree with you, Miss Harlow, and say that the horse is a better value, especially in the circumstance you are devising. However, Mr. Lincoln’s older brother is a noted pugilist and I fear there is an element of rivalry with his sibling in his interest in boxing. For that reason, I would suggest you offer him the latter prize. May I ask how you will arrange it?”