The Bolingbroke Chit: A Regency Romance

by Lynn Messina

  Vinnie, who did not seem immune to the significance of the moment, for she had given her sister a very fond look, spoke with the same nonchalance. “Years is rather overstating the case. With my skill, it would have taken only months. I appreciate, however, being spared the obligation of having to make the effort.”

  Huntly nodded with approval, for he, too, was prepared to forgive her. “Although I question your methods, I’m grateful to you for revealing our weak spot where Townshend is concerned. As Emma said, we had thought him well routed.”

  Agatha looked at Huntly—indeed, she looked at all of them: Huntly, Emma, Vinnie, the duke—and wondered how they could all be so kind in the face of her abuse. She had portrayed Huntly as a helpless hothouse flower in the hands of a conniving, monstrous female.

  “You mustn’t be grateful,” she said with an emphatic shake of her head. “I am glad my actions have been of some use to you, but you mustn’t credit me with pure intentions. My goal, first and foremost, was to extricate myself from Townshend’s control. Having discovered the truth of my identity, he threatened to reveal it to the ton if I did not publish a second or third drawing and that I could not bear. Naturally, I had hoped to discover information that would help Miss Harlow as well, but that was not my primary concern. It is I who must be grateful, for your timely arrival surely saved my life.”

  At the mention of their timely arrival, Addleson leaned against the door and considered the group of unexpected visitors thoughtfully. “I, too, am grateful for your well-timed entrance, but I’m also curious to know by what devising it was contrived. How did you discover Mr. Holyroodhouse’s true identity and how did you know he would be here this afternoon?”

  Emma laughed with genuine amusement, for his question made the four of them seem preternaturally prescient. “Rest assured, we had no idea Mr. Holyroodhouse was Lady Agatha until Townshend called her that in their struggle, and I, for one, was entirely shocked. It was very clever of you,” she said with an admiring glance at the artist, “to publish caricatures of Lady Agony. Such pointed mistreatment would throw anyone off the scent.”

  Townshend snarled as best he could from behind the handkerchief as Agatha shrugged in modesty.

  “We thought Mr. Holyroodhouse was a footman in her father’s house called Joseph Williams,” the duke explained. “Our investigator, a remarkably capable man named Mr. Squibbs, had been surveilling Mrs. Biddle’s shop to gather information and while he was there, he witnessed an exchange between Mr. Holyroodhouse and Mrs. Biddle in which the former announced the end of their association. He followed Mr. Holyroodhouse back to Lord Bolingbroke’s town house and saw him disappear into a window in the servants’ quarters. Further inquiries confirmed that the description of the gentleman matched that of Joseph Williams. One of Squibbs’s associates had been watching the residence for further movements of Williams and when the man presumed to be Williams left the house through the same window this afternoon, he followed him here. Squibbs alerted us immediately and we rushed to the Rusty Plinth to confront him.”

  Agatha recalled the scene in Mrs. Biddle’s shop, her anxious determination to bring the whole episode to a close immediately and in person, and remembered the patron who appeared too engrossed in a series of drawings to pay any attention to her at all. It had not struck her as strange at the time.

  “A tall man in a mustard yellow waistcoat?” Agatha asked.

  “Yes, that is Mr. Squibbs. For such an distinctive figure, he’s amazingly skilled at making himself seem unremarkable,” Emma observed. “Now you know how we came to arrive here in the nick of time. Please tell us your version of events. If you are looking for a place to start, you can explain why you have borrowed your footman’s clothes.”

  “Mainly because my father’s were too large for me,” Agatha said with a wry glance at her ensemble before launching into a narrative of her recent exploits. Having already apologized for her own egregious deeds, she kept to the facts and offered no opinions, preferring, despite Emma’s request, to start at the actual beginning, with the anonymous letter she had received. She outlined her scheme to impersonate the absent Mr. Clemmons to gain entry into the British Horticultural Society, whose minutes were orderly but not teeming with useful information, and detailed her horror when Townshend arrived to castigate the real Clemmons for failing to properly poison Petrie.

  When she explained why the deputy director had tried to indefinitely preempt the American’s visit, Vinnie exclaimed with disgust, “You appalling man! Have you never written a single word that was not pilfered from someone else?” She shook her head and said to Agatha, “That is the source of our enmity. I discovered Townshend had plagiarized much of the text for his book, Botanicus, from a dear friend of mine and threatened to release that information if he did not support me in my membership endeavor. He responded by threatening to publish damaging information about me in return—information he could have gotten only from an informant high in the home secretary’s office—which led to Emma’s threat of treason.”

  Although Agatha genuinely had no interest in the ton’s full-time sport of rampant speculation, she thought a person would have to be inhuman or dead not to wonder about the connection between Miss Lavinia Harlow, the home secretary and Sir Waldo’s death. If she were prone to making wild guesses, Agatha would think that Townshend’s charge against Vinnie was actually true. For some unknown reason, the very sensible Miss Lavinia Harlow had killed her fiancé, and if the home secretary’s office knew about it and if Townshend had opened himself up to allegations of treason, then her actions somehow had to be in service of their country.

  Was Sir Waldo Windbourne a spy?

  Was Vinnie?

  As outrageous as both possibilities were, one had to be true, for the pieces of the puzzle would not fit together any other way.

  Vinnie, of course, did not seem to be a spy, but appearing non-spy-like was no doubt the number one requirement of the job. The fact, however, that her family had contrived to save her from Townshend’s vitriol, not the forces of the British government, argued for her status as a civilian. Windbourne, then, had to be the one digging for secret information, and the circumstances of his mysterious death and Vinnie’s freedom implied he had conspired against the interests of England.

  Had he been working for Boney or another foreign regime that sought to conquer their little isle?

  Astounded by these thoughts, Agatha struggled to return her mind to the topic at hand. What had they been discussing? The source of Townshend’s enmity—Vinnie’s attempt to garner his support through blackmail.

  “Given your arrangement with my father—that is,” she explained, “your compact to make me popular in exchange for his vote—I had assumed you had used similar or a more forceful form of persuasion with the other members. But I was confused because Townshend’s voting record indicated no influence at all.”

  Vinnie, who would have been mortified if she had known the direction Agatha’s thoughts had taken, turned a light shade of pink at the mention of persuasive tactics. “I did propose to several members, if not, perhaps, all of them, certain arrangements in exchange for their support, but in the end I decided to eschew underhanded methods and to gain—or not gain—admittance on my own merits.”

  Agatha’s eyebrow’s lifted in surprise. “But if that’s true, why did my mother and I accompany you to The Merchant of Venice?”

  She did not need to hear the answer, for the look the sisters darted at each other said it all.

  “My mother would not release you from your agreement, would she?” Agatha said with a laugh that was only a little bit forced. There was nothing else to do when humiliated by one’s parent yet again than decide to be amused. “Hoisted by your own petard as they say. That could not have been very pleasant for you.” Then, because she feared further comment would reveal an unintended bitterness, she changed the subject. “After I relayed the episode with Townshend to Addleson, he suggested that I, as Clemmons, propose an exchange
of incriminating letters to Townshend, which I did. Then he arranged for the Runners to be close by to overhear any profession of guilt, which Townshend helpfully supplied.”

  At the implication that he had a hand in his own undoing, Townshend intensified his protests, and Huntly, unwilling to listen to the unpleasant screech, inserted a second handkerchief into the prisoner’s already stuffed mouth.

  Trent’s lips twitched as he watched Townshend’s eyes bulge from the exertion of expressing his displeasure. “An improvement,” he said, “but I suppose the fellow does have a point. We can’t keep him restrained in the backroom of the Rusty Plinth indefinitely. We must settle on an arrangement for his long-term care.”

  “Townshend obligingly pointed out that our proximity to the Thames is rather convenient for the disposal of troublemaking individuals,” Addleson observed mildly. “I believe he estimated the cost of having a pair of gentlemen from the other room handle it to be only a few guineas. I am happy to shoulder the entire expense if that means a speedy resolution to our problem.”

  Although Townshend’s high-pitched squeak made his objection to a watery grave known, nobody else in the room gave the suggestion genuine consideration.

  “Nonsense,” Emma said. “You have gone through the trouble of arranging Runners and we should allow them the courtesy of doing their job. Townshend’s crimes are plentiful and undeniable, as half a dozen unimpeachable witnesses will testify to seeing him hold a gun to Lady Agatha’s head.”

  Vinnie nodded. “I agree. Mr. Townshend has shown himself to be far too dangerous to remain at large. For all we know, this Clemmons fellow might have expired from his illness. We have only Townshend’s word that the dosage he provided was just enough to make Petrie too sick to travel.”

  “An excellent point,” her twin said admiringly.

  But Huntly was shaking his head. “No. The scandal would be too great. We would bring Townshend to justice but at a high cost to you and Lady Agatha, for the truth would inevitably emerge. We must come up with an alternative plan that will not engage the interest of the ton.”

  “Exile,” Trent said.

  “Yes,” Addleson said. “My thought exactly, which is why there is a ship bound for New South Wales with Townshend’s name already on its manifest. All we have to do is deliver him to the wharf before the next tide.”

  Huntly smiled ruefully. “Is there not a ship that leaves soon for the Arabian desert or some other territory with a more arid landscape? New Holland is home to many exotic flowers, such as Telopea speciosissima, a rare species with a stunning red bloom, and I can’t help but feel that with access to such unusual and interesting flora, Townshend might yet make something of himself.”

  Vinnie scoffed at the possibility. “Unless New South Wales is home to a budding community of gifted horticulturalists from whom he can steal original ideas, I think it’s very unlikely Townshend shall produce anything of note. Exile to a distant corner of the empire is a fitting end for a man whose contribution to civilization has been negligible at best.”

  “Excellent, then it is decided,” Emma said, walking over to Townshend to address him directly. She waited until he raised his eyes to meet hers before speaking. “I have no doubt this treatment at our hands will further nourish your hatred of me and my sister. I understand the impulse and would feel the same. I trust, however, that you will think very carefully before trying to strike back again, for none of our encounters has ended in your favor and none of them ever will.”

  Townshend had much to say about the resolution of their encounters, but his plaintive grunts quickly faded as the Runners, at a gesture from the viscount, dragged him from the room. They heard a sharp, muffled cry as the former deputy of Kew, struggling to free himself, knocked his knee against the side of a table.

  Addleson watched them disappear through the front door, then said, “I will accompany them to the ship and make sure Townshend gets off without incident.”

  “Very good,” Trent said. “Will you be kind enough to send me a note when the deed is done?”

  “Of course,” he said. “And will you be kind enough to see Lady Agatha home?”

  “Oh, but I—” Agatha began, but her protest was summarily cut off by the duke, who assured Addleson that he would insist on nothing less.

  Having her immediate future settled without her input disappointed Agatha, but it was nothing compared to the sadness she felt at realizing the adventure was over. With the happy conclusion of the affair, she no longer had cause to conspire with Addleson, a thought that made her very unhappy. A lump rose in her throat, making it impossible to speak, and although she feared the tears it might bring, she was grateful for the enforced silence. Without it, she might plead with Addleson to let her ride in the carriage just so they may be allies in a scheme for a few minutes more.

  Her risk of humiliation was further reduced by a gasp of surprise from Vinnie. “These are remarkable,” she said, picking up the Newgate drawings and gently brushing off the broken glass.

  Struggling to hold on to her control, Agatha managed a polite thank you.

  Vinnie interpreted her cursory reply as disbelief in her sincerity and shook her head as she examined the illustration of Townshend on the gallows. “No, truly, Agatha, these are amazing. Your skill is prodigious, and seeing it like this, so visceral and passionate, I wonder at how little damage you have done. If I had been endowed with this much talent, I would have inflicted considerably more harm than Mr. Holyroodhouse in my need to express it.”

  Emma studied the drawing over her sister’s shoulder. “As much as it pains me to offer you compliments, I must agree with Vinnie’s assessment. You are very gifted.”

  “Very gifted,” Vinnie echoed. “If you are taking on commissions, I hope you will consider doing a portrait of my brother’s children. They are such dear little darlings and we have no painting of them in London.”

  Stunned by the earnestness of their compliments and still saddened by the end of her alliance with Addleson, Agatha could only stare at the Harlow twins. She could think of nothing to say, not even a simple yes or no in response to Vinnie’s request, and merely complied silently when Emma slid her elbow through hers and said, “Come. It has been an eventful afternoon and I’m sure you’re in need of rest. We will discuss the commission tomorrow during our ride in Hyde Park.”

  Agatha did indeed need rest, for she had no idea what was happening. It appeared as if the Harlow hoydens wished to commission a work of art from her, which was, in a day of extraordinary developments, the most extraordinary one of all. Flustered, she opened her mouth to thank them for their unexpected kindness when the rest of Emma’s words struck her.

  “Our ride?” she asked, puzzled.

  Emma nodded as she guided Agatha to the door. “Per our arrangement with your mother, we are obligated to accompany you to the theater and ride with you in Hyde Park. We Harlows take our responsibilities very seriously, so don’t think you can weasel out of it now.”

  At a loss, Agatha looked helplessly at Addleson as Emma led her across the room. Amused by her predicament—abducted by the Duchess of Trent!—he offered no support save an encouraging smile. Don’t fight the inevitable, his look seemed to say.

  As a general rule, Agatha did not believe in the inevitable, for it implied an inexcusable abdication of responsibility. Yet as Emma tugged her inexorably toward the threshold, she conceded the advantage in recognizing the things beyond her control: She could not stop her mother trying to turn her into a conventional young lady, she could not deter the Harlow sisters from befriending her, and she could not make Viscount Addleson love her.

  Disheartened, she stepped out of the Rusty Plinth and squinted her eyes against the bright afternoon light. Obviously, she had not been so foolish as to expect a lasting union to come of their brief alliance. She had known from the beginning that his offer to help had been motivated by an innate desire to rescue a damsel in distress—any damsel. It had not been inspired by a speci
fic desire to rescue her, Lady Agatha Bolingbroke.

  Just like the kiss, she realized: rooted in circumstance, reinforced by nature, detached from emotion.

  Inhaling deeply, she climbed into the duke’s carriage with his assistance and assured herself she was ready to return to her quiet existence. No, she thought, return wasn’t the right word, for she would not resume her life as it had been. No longer would she make the social rounds to appease her mother and wedge painting into the remaining hours. This time, she would pursue her painting in earnest, improving her skill and refining her technique, and she would not hide her vocation. She would discuss it openly and submit canvases to be displayed publicly at the Royal Academy of Arts’ summer exhibition.

  Then, as Vinnie took the seat across from her, Agatha wondered why she must settle for only exhibiting at the academy. Why could not she have the pleasure of attending as a student?

  Agatha had no illusions—she knew it was an entirely impossible proposition that would never come to pass. Despite the fact that two women were among the founders, the institution was resolutely male. That said, she was sitting in a carriage with the first female member of the British Horticultural Society and the notoriously hardheaded Harlow Hoyden. If anyone had an affinity for impossible propositions, it was these two women. Surely, if they were determined to be her friends, they would rally to her cause.

  All those years, she thought with a shake of her head, vilifying the Harlow Hoyden when she should have been allying herself.

  The carriage lurched into motion, and Agatha stared out the window as the Rusty Plinth receded from view. To her heart, both melancholy and mawkish, it felt as if the viscount himself were disappearing, and she thought she was a fool to believe she could accomplish anything with this desperate sadness pressing on her chest.