The Bolingbroke Chit: A Regency Romance

by Lynn Messina

  Startled, Agatha looked down at the entry to which Addleson was pointing and leaned in closer to get a better look. It was there in black-and-white—agenda item number five: Mr. Petrie’s Invitation to Speak.

  Addleson turned to the minutes for the next meeting and she saw it again: Mr. Petrie’s Invitation to Speak. He flipped ahead two weeks and pointed to the third item on the agenda: Mr. Petrie’s Invitation to Speak. He thumbed through a half dozen pages and waited for her to find it: Mr. Petrie’s Invitation to Speak.

  Agatha could not imagine what it meant. She herself had noted Townshend’s interest in Mr. Petrie’s visit, but it had not struck her as peculiar. She merely assumed the deputy director of Kew was eager to meet a fellow naturalist from another part of the world. Having not gone as far back as Addleson, she failed to see the three other agenda items or to place them in a larger context.

  But now that the viscount had identified a pattern, she realized there was something unusual about his interest and felt a tinge of excitement. Unusual was evidence. With evidence, she had a direction. With a direction, she had a chance of overcoming Townshend’s threats.

  Her heart racing, Agatha looked at Addleson. Far from twinkling, his eyes were deadly serious.

  Before either one of them could say a word, the object of their speculation marched into the room and strolled forcefully across the floor. A smiling Mr. Berry trotted behind him, trying to catch up.

  “You will never believe it, Mr. Clemmons,” the clerk announced, slightly out of breath as he covered the last few steps to the table, “but yet another one of our members has paid you a call. At the risk of sounding hyperbolic, I must say you are the single most popular visitor we have ever had here—excluding lecturers, of course. I don’t mean to imply that you are more popular than the many accomplished men who have spoken here.”

  While Mr. Berry clarified his statement, Agatha stared at him aghast, dumbfounded by the situation and clueless as to what to do next. Should she look at Townshend? He was there to see her. It would be strange, would it not, if she refused to look at the person expressly there to visit her? But how could she look at him? He might recognize her, even dressed in her footman’s clothes and her grandfather’s wig.

  The wig!

  That confounded contrivance itched so much she felt like a flea-ridden mouse on the back of a flea-ridden dog, and it felt as if it would slide off at any moment.

  Was it crooked? Had it shifted? Was it about to tumble to the floor?

  She was afraid to move her head and knew she must not raise a hand to touch it because that would look bizarre. Gentlemen did not straighten their hair.

  Addleson, whose mind was not overwhelmed by doubt and fear, greeted the newcomer with an easy smile and an extended hand. “I don’t believe we’ve met. I am Jonah Hamilton, Viscount Addleson.”

  Mr. Berry, who considered all greetings and salutations to be within his purview, immediately jumped in to complete the introductions.

  “Townshend,” the viscount said curiously, “of the Beaminster Townshends?”

  “No, my lord,” Townshend said firmly.

  “Of the Snodland Townshends, then?”

  He shook his head. “I’m afraid not.”

  “Ah, so it must be the Glossop Townshends. Lovely people. I once borrowed a sheep from them that I failed to return. They have never brought it up once. You will convey my apologies, I trust?”

  By the scowl on his face, it was clear that Mr. Luther Townshend was not of the Glossop clan either, but rather than extend the conversation, he agreed to comply with the viscount’s request with all possible haste.

  “I would expect nothing less from a Glossop Townshend,” Addleson replied approvingly. “As I said, lovely people.”

  Agatha listened to the exchange, fully aware the viscount was giving her an opportunity to collect herself. His ruse had worked, and by the time Mr. Berry introduced Clemmons, she was able to calmly meet Townshend’s gaze.

  People only see what they expect to see, she reminded herself.

  Thankfully, the deputy director of Kew saw very little of interest in her, as his glance met her own only briefly before turning to Addleson to inquire as to his interest in the society’s private matters. Mr. Berry reddened at the question, for the disapproval was clear, but the viscount answered the query in exhaustive detail, outlining his short-lived intention to start his own flower club and earning Townshend’s scorn when he explained that designing a uniform and an insignia was simply more effort than he could expend on a single project.

  Mr. Berry, who still did not know what to make of the odd viscount, laughed and said, “I’m sure Lord Addleson is joking.”

  “I’m sure he’s not,” Townshend said pleasantly.

  Agatha took another deep breath and felt her heart rate slowly returning to normal. She was comforted by the exchange, for the gentleman from Kew had bought the Lord Addlewit act without any hesitation. Having dismissed the viscount as a fool, he had looked no further nor suspected a gambit. That incurious nature would work to her benefit because it meant he would not wonder at Mr. Adolphus Clemmons’s ill-fitting tailcoat or look askance at his hair.

  “Since we’ve established that the founding of a noble institution is not suited to your talents,” Townshend said, “perhaps you should excuse yourself to find something that is. Your presence in this library is highly irregular, and I question Mr. Berry’s judgment in allowing it.”

  Within seconds, the clerk’s face had turned crimson and when he opened his mouth to speak, only a smothered gurgling sound emerged. He bowed his head in shame. “You are entirely right to question my judgment. I apologize, Mr. Townshend, for violating the society’s privacy, which is sacrosanct.” He turned to the viscount and begged his forgiveness as well. “As the caretaker of this organization, I should know better than to let my enthusiasm get the better of me. Now, if you will follow me, my lord, I will escort you to the door.”

  “No need to apologize, Mr. Berry, I entirely understand, for my enthusiasms often run away with me,” Addleson said graciously. “How very lucky we are to have someone like Mr. Townshend to keep us in check.”

  “I do what I can, my lord,” Townshend said modestly.

  “I’m sure you do,” the viscount murmured before turning to Agatha, who dreaded the moment he would exit the room and leave her alone with Townshend. Secure in her disguise, she was not worried—or, rather, not altogether worried—that he would discover the truth, but her last interview with the villain had convinced her that no exchange with him could be pleasant. Even this simple question-and-answer session would be repellent.

  God only knew what knowledge Mr. Petrie claimed she was in possession of this time.

  “I cannot thank you enough, Mr. Clemmons, for indulging me in my folly,” Addleson said, looking Agatha squarely in the eyes and sliding in a sly wink. “I look forward to concluding our business some other time.”

  “As do I, my lord,” Agatha said, then watched helplessly as Addleson turned on his heels and walked to the door in the company of Mr. Berry, whose heightened color had yet to subside.

  Taking a deep breath, Agatha ordered herself to remain calm—panicking now would be fatal. Deliberately, she called to mind Mr. Townshend’s drawing of Miss Harlow with the words weed killer written in large capital letters along the bottom of the spray can.

  He’s a fool, she reminded herself. All I have to do is get through one brief conversation with a fool. I can do that.

  Amused, she affirmed silently that it was always useful to feel superior to one’s oppressor and turned to face Townshend.

  He took three abrupt steps toward her, stopped an inch from her nose and flew his hand across her cheek.

  “How dare you!” he snarled.

  Agatha was stunned speechless. Absolutely speechless. She didn’t cry out or call out or protest or complain. She didn’t raise a hand to nurse her stinging cheek. She simply stood there astonished.

  “Ho
w dare you show up here!” Townshend roared, his eyes burning with fury. “I paid you one hundred pounds to ensure Petrie would not get on that ship—one hundred pounds—and yet here he is making the rounds in London. You fool! I gave you the exact amount of arsenic to put in his coffee to guarantee his incapacitation. All you had to do was dispense it properly. Just a few grains of arsenic in the coffee on the morning you were meant to depart! It was a simple plan, you idiot! How did you run afoul of such a simple plan? And then you have the temerity to show your face here! How dare you!” He lifted his hand again as if to administer another slap, but it hung in the air for a moment before grasping Agatha by the neck cloth. His eyes were so close to hers, she could see the black lines that rimmed his irises. “Do you think I will give you another one hundred pounds to try again? You imbecile! I will not listen to your excuses!”

  Agatha had offered none. Even if words had occurred to her, she would not have spoken them aloud, for she knew silence was her ally. In truth, however, she had no words. She barely had any thoughts. All she had was shock—shock at the slap, shock at the attack, shock at the truth.

  She couldn’t make sense of it yet.

  “I do not know what purpose you have in coming here, but you will not attain it, you scoundrel,” he sneered with disgust as his grip on her cravat tightened. His breath smelled of stale tobacco and kippers, and she had to turn her head to the side to avoid the stench. He laughed cruelly, seized her chin and forced her to look him in the eye. His fingers dug into her skin, but she refused to flinch. “You will not attain it.”

  Slowly, Agatha’s mind started to process the information: Townshend and Clemmons had a compact to keep Petrie out of the country; Clemmons betrayed the compact either by intention or mistake; Townshend wanted to keep Petrie out of the country.

  The elements of a nefarious scheme were present, but she could not figure out what, why or how. Townshend’s anger seemed like madness to her.

  “Perhaps you think to extort more money from me. How many pounds will your silence cost me? One hundred? Two hundred? A thousand? You are not as clever as you think, Mr. Clemmons, nor am I such a fool. I’ve kept all your letters. That surprises you, doesn’t it?” he asked derisively, his hold on her neck cloth loosening as he contemplated his advantage. His shoulders also slackened and he tipped his head back, giving her access to fresher air. “You assumed I destroyed our correspondence as you had requested, but I have every single letter you’ve sent me during our four-year association, including the very first one, in which you introduce yourself to me as Mr. Petrie’s secretary and offer to provide with me copies of his articles in exchange for a fee.”

  Townshend was much calmer now, and he smiled thinly as he released his grip on Agatha. Then he meticulously straightened the folds of her cravat. It required all of Agatha’s self-control not to shove his hands away.

  “Yes, I have every single letter you’ve sent me,” he repeated, taking a step backward to examine his handiwork, “and I will not hesitate to use them against you. Mr. Petrie would be quite shocked to discover you’ve been feeding me his articles for years, and won’t he be surprised to learn of your plot to poison him. In this country, it’s illegal to try to kill a man. You may think you can escape the noose by pointing your finger at me, but you forget: This is my country—mine—and you are the stranger here, a stranger who has admitted in writing that he intended to poison his employer. I think you’ll find English justice is swift and sure.”

  Agatha nodded, for she agreed with his statement and believed that Mr. Clemmons would be immediately presented to the gallows should the evidence come to light just as Townshend had described. An immoral foreigner would not be able to make a case against an upstanding Englishman with influential friends and a respectable position as a director of an esteemed institution.

  But what about Lady Agatha Bolingbroke? She was the respectable daughter of an established peer with many more influential friends than Mr. Luther Townshend. Would her testimony stand against his? Could she use the threat of the truth as a bargaining chip to preserve her secret and Vinnie’s reputation?

  Even as she considered the maneuver, she knew it was too risky to try. Mr. Townshend could not be relied upon to react in a reasonable manner, for his temper, as he had already demonstrated, was vile, and she could easily imagine his wrath veering out of control if he discovered he had been duped. He’d also proven himself to have a devious mind and would most likely be suspicious of any deal that was not weighted in his favor, as this deal would not. Attempted murder was a far more serious crime than rendering as ridiculous one’s fellow members of the ton, which was not an actual crime at all but rather a grave social faux pas.

  No, the best thing Agatha could do now was to remain silent and still and get through the interview without giving herself away.

  Townshend examined her mute form with satisfaction. “Your timidity pleases me, Mr. Clemmons.”

  Good, Lady Agony thought.

  “It’s not what I had expected from your letters,” he added. “I thought you would be more a brute, but you are actually quite slight. I suppose that makes sense, as a more substantial man would make his way honestly in the world, not scheme behind the back of his generous employer. Your greed and incompetence disgust me.”

  The irony of his contempt did not strike him: a dishonest man chastising another dishonest man for his dishonesty. Perhaps, she thought, the secret to being a villain was believing yourself to be a victim.

  “This is what is going to happen now,” Townshend announced in a firm voice that led Agatha to hope the end of the ordeal was in sight. “You will remove yourself from my presence and this island immediately. I do not care where you go as long as you go silently. You are free to die in a gutter as long as it is not an English gutter. Do you understand?”

  Agatha started to nod, for there was nothing she wanted more than to remove herself from his presence, but she could not bring herself to abandon Mr. Petrie—poor, long-winded, small-minded, generally-offensive-to-all-women, oblivious Mr. Petrie, who had no idea his articles and theses had been published in another country under someone else’s name. She could not simply leave him to his fate, for she did not know what Townshend had in store for him. It could be another dose of arsenic in his coffee or something far more wicked.

  Gathering her courage, she coughed roughly and sputtered in as guttural a voice as she was capable, “What about Petrie?”

  Townshend sneered at her concern, interpreting it—thank goodness—as another attempt to extort money. “You sniveling cur! I would not let you in on my plan even if you volunteered to pay me for the privilege. I will take care of the matter myself, and I assure you I will not dose my own coffee by mistake. Now go!”

  Agatha did not need to be told twice. Although she had brought a little book for the recording of notes, she did not bother to collect it from the table, for she didn’t want to spend the few extra seconds in Townshend’s company. It made no difference, as the notebook was empty anyway.

  As she breezed past Mr. Berry’s office en route to the front door, the clerk requested a word, but she did not pause to give it. She merely waved her right hand in acknowledgment, which he may or may not have seen from his vantage. That, too, made no difference to her.

  Then, finally, she was outside the British Horticultural Society and she walked to the corner and around the block and down the street until she was a good enough distance away to safely allow the terror she hadn’t let herself feel wash over her. Her hand trembled, her heart throbbed, and her blood pounded as she imagined the scene with Townshend ending in an altogether different way. She knew it was sheer melodrama to think it, and yet she couldn’t help but feel she was lucky to be alive. As easily as he had slapped her cheek, Townshend could have snapped her neck.

  “You are utterly ridiculous,” she muttered, as she took several deep breaths, savoring the freshness of the air. How stagnant and stale the library had become.

 
Annoyed by the panic and angered by the helpless feeling it engendered, Agatha flagged down a hack and ordered it to take her to Mrs. Biddle’s shop in St. James’s Street. She was a human being, a woman with a sound mind and a strong resolve, not a leaf to be buffeted by every strong wind. She would not sit back and wait for fate to deal her another blow. No, she would take matters into her own hands by officially retiring Mr. Holyroodhouse. There was no reason she could not do it in person, for her grandfather’s wig and Williams’s Sunday best offered her all the protection she needed.

  Agatha felt so bold and capable striding into Mrs. Biddle’s establishment in broad daylight, she was almost disappointed to find it empty save for the proprietress and a lone customer in a mustard yellow waistcoat browsing one of the shelves. It was Mr. Holyroodhouse’s curtain call, and she would not have minded a slightly larger audience. Nevertheless, it was sufficient.

  “Good day, madam,” she said, using her deepest baritone and standing a few feet from the counter. “Although we have never met, we are longtime associates and I am here to end that association. My name is Holyroodhouse, Mr. Martin Holyroodhouse, and you have published my caricatures for several years. I appreciate your support and cooperation, but our arrangement is officially at an end. Please do not attempt to contact me.” Agatha bowed abruptly and noted that the tall man by the shelf hadn’t looked up once during her speech. As absurd as it was, she felt somehow slighted by his lack of interest in what was Mr. Holyroodhouse’s first and last public statement.

  So be it, she thought, before bidding Mrs. Biddle an abrupt good day.