The Bolingbroke Chit: A Regency Romance

by Lynn Messina

  “Now, that is what I call a demonstration,” Emma said approvingly.

  Chapter Three

  To say that Jonah Hamilton, Viscount Addleson, was unimpressed by Agastache rupestris would be to understate the case significantly. It would be more accurate to declare with unequivocal certainty that he found the flower—commonly known as sunset hyssop—to be the least interesting cultivar he’d ever had the displeasure of examining through a magnifying glass.

  “Its ability to withstand high temperatures and arid soil makes it particularly well suited to the desert regions and mountain ranges of the American West,” Mr. Caleb Petrie explained as he directed Addleson’s attention to the plant’s spidery roots and spoke for five minutes on the benefits of a shallow root system for maximizing water absorption.

  Previous lecture subjects had included the flower’s startlingly vibrant orange petals, reminiscent of a sunset, of course, which was how the plant got its name, and its usefulness in attracting bees.

  Why anyone would want to attract a horde of insects that stung its quarry with random ferocity the viscount could not fathom. Nor could he comprehend why anyone would fret about the amount of water a plant absorbed during a three-month period in a climate of moderate dryness.

  And yet Mr. Petrie continued to discuss these subjects at length with barely contained enthusiasm, his pale blue eyes glowing with excitement as he focused his magnifying glass on a spindly brown root. He was an unusually tall gentleman with a graying beard, and after fifty-two years of looking down on his fellow enthusiasts, he had started to consider them beneath his notice. This predilection explained why he failed to see the glassy-eyed boredom in his lone audience member’s gaze. “You see, it’s exactly as I said,” he observed eagerly.

  Like any titled gentleman of impeccable breeding, the viscount did not mind being bored to flinders. Indeed, he considered it one of his chief obligations as a member of the peerage. Dinner hostesses, business associates, simpering misses, ignorant cawkers, swells of the first stare—they all conspired to keep him in a semipermanent state of ennui. Addleson wasn’t an impatient man, merely a quick-thinking one, and few people or things presented sufficient stimulation to maintain his interest. To his late father’s irritation, he had the deplorable ability to immediately identify a problem and present a solution, a skill that assured his estates ran with unprecedented efficiency but left him with few challenges. Vingt-un had been a consuming occupation for a while—before he realized he could keep track of all the cards in play and was no longer surprised by the revelation of a hand.

  As tolerant as he was of boredom, however, Addleson was willing to shoulder only his fair share of it, and the fact that he was Mr. Petrie’s sole victim bothered him hugely. If the lecture had been addressed to the entire room, which was, to be sure, stocked to the ceiling with plant devotees, he would not cavil. But it was directed exclusively at him and there was no good reason why he alone should be singled out for the honor. His interest in flowers extended only to the presenting of them to Incognitas and courtesans and even then he performed such courtesies infrequently. A man of his ilk—cultured and tailored to within an inch of his life—had no business knowing the word cultivar, let alone how to use it correctly in a sentence.

  Indifferent to the viscount’s shame or, perhaps, even oblivious to it, the thoughtless Mr. Petrie had foisted that knowledge on him as he had other information, a development Addleson deeply resented. There were few experiences more unpleasant to an Englishman than to be educated against his will.

  Of course, attending the soiree had been a mistake. A gathering to welcome an unknown naturalist from the wilds of North America was hardly Viscount Addleson’s natural milieu. A gathering to welcome a well-known one was no more his scene, but that at least carried the cachet of meeting a celebrated figure. In this case, however, he had been unable to resist the enthusiasms of his cousin, who had sworn up and down that the evening would be the most thrilling affair of the season. The viscount, being almost thirty years of age and suspicious of all superlatives, doubted very much that the event would rise to the level of entertainment vehemently professed, but his sense of humor was such that it compelled him to witness firsthand exactly how unthrilling it was. For his perversity, he’d earned a private audience with the evening’s guest of honor, whose success among other unknown naturalists from the wilds of North America was mentioned several times by the visitor himself.

  The viscount found it difficult to believe there were any other American naturalists, let alone additional unknown ones, but he held his tongue and waited out his punishment. He knew it was pointless to try to interrupt a man who traveled with his own magnifying glass. Had Petrie produced a monocle or even a loupe like a jeweler, Addleson would not have hesitated to change the subject, for the reticent nature of those devices implied an openness to new ideas. But Petrie’s magnifying glass, with its mother-of-pearl handle that freed its user from all physical constraints, indicated a dominant mind unwilling to be swayed.

  “No, no, no,” Petrie said suddenly and vigorously, as if confirming the viscount’s thoughts, which would have been an impressive feat, for the speaker seemed entirely unaware that his lordship had any. “You must not ask me about the soil quality of the Atlantic coastline, for my assistant, Mr. Clemmons, is not here and he knows all the precise details of my research, which is, as of yet, incomplete. You are right to point out the several articles I’ve published on Ammophila breviligulata, as they caused quite a stir in my home state. I look forward to working further with those subjects when I return to New York. I suppose I could have declined this trip to pursue my study, but an invitation to speak at the British Horticultural Society is too great an honor to turn down. If only my assistant were here. He had been all ready to board the ship with me when he was suddenly and inexplicably overcome by a hideous stomach ailment. But that is neither here nor there, for your interest is only in the suppositions that I hope to confirm as soon as I return to New York, which has several promising islands in the immediate environs of the port. However, since you asked, I will discuss the tolerance of Ammophila breviligulata to intense heat, excessive sunlight and drying winds.”

  The truth was, of course, that Addleson had not asked about the soil quality of the Atlantic coastline, and he strongly doubted the American would have heard the question if he had. Like all bores, he preferred his own thoughts and opinions to the exclusion of others and had changed the subject from Agastache rupestris to Ammophila breviligulata without any prompting from his victim. Addleson’s father had been the same way, pontificating at length on topics of interest to him, but the late viscount had the additional debility of limited intelligence, which made him suspicious of everyone, including his son.

  Smothering a sigh, Addleson glanced around the parlor, a comfortable room decorated in quiet shades of blue and gray, and spotted his cousin by the window in deep conversation with the Earl of Moray. Edward wore an expression of amazed wonder as he nodded agreeably to everything Moray said. No doubt they were discussing the vital importance of sun to Flowericus randomonus. A few feet to their left was Lord Bolingbroke, a tall, stout gentleman whose imposing stature was undermined by the look of rapt fascination on his face and a coquelicot waistcoat two sizes too small. Examining him, Addleson could not decide which of his host’s offenses was greater: his complete indifference to the suffering of one of his guests or his offensively bright, ill-fitting, red waistcoat.

  No, thought Addleson with a small shake of his head, it was easily the waistcoat. Obliviousness could always be dismissed as the unanticipated effect of excessive excitement, but there was never an excuse for displaying poor sartorial judgment. If one could not be relied upon to show faultless taste at all times, then one was obligated to hire a valet who would. It was the single most important rule of being a titled gentleman, after cooling down your horses properly following exercise and giving your servants generous Boxing Day presents.

  As understand
ing as Addleson was of his host’s distraction, he still could not help being irked by it. Yes, the waistcoat was the graver sin, but its unappealing color did not entirely overshadow Bolingbroke’s failure to attend to his duties as host. Even if he did not notice Petrie monopolizing the viscount, surely he should have noticed the viscount monopolizing Petrie. After all, the man was the guest of honor, the reason the large and elegant crowd had gathered in the blue-gray parlor, and yet nobody had tried to claim his attention for—Addleson looked at his watch—twenty-three minutes. Certainly by now a kindly onlooker or an impatient admirer should have saved the naturalist from the viscount’s clutches with a pointed interruption. Addleson was not possessive of his victimhood. He didn’t care who was thought to be the sufferer as long as it was acknowledged that someone in the conversation was suffering.

  “It has not been confirmed yet,” Petrie said, continuing his monologue unabated, “for I have not had the chance to complete my research, a development that I attribute to this delightful visit, which I may have mentioned before—please forgive me if I repeat myself. At a certain point, one acquires so much knowledge one cannot keep all the facts and figures straight in one’s head without a chart or an assistant, such as the helpful Mr. Clemmons. I do wish he were here so he could give you the particulars you seek. However, as I was saying, it’s my belief that Ammophila breviligulata is less vigorous in stabilized sand. This theory is based on the curious fact that Ammophila breviligulata is harder to find inland than along the coastline. From my astute observation, I can naturally suppose that it thrives under a certain circumstance.”

  Finding coastal plants no more interesting than root systems, Addleson looked at his watch again. Over the years, he had developed a method for surreptitiously checking the time so as not to give offense, but he did not bother to employ it now, for it was clear to him that Petrie would not notice. Nobody in the room would notice, he thought with a chagrined look at his cousin, who remained in thrall to Moray. Damn Edward! Bolingbroke was no better, nor was Lord Waldegrave, with his ingratiating smile at his host’s wife, or Mrs. Clydeon, who was bent over a modest pamphlet with a green cover, or—

  Shifting his head, Addleson suddenly found himself the object of Lady Agatha’s frank appraisal, her black eyes steady as she watched him. He was startled to discover himself unknowingly observed—had she seen him consult the time? wince at her father’s waistcoat?—and assumed his surprise explained the odd little buzzing sound he heard in his head as his gaze locked with hers. It was the strangest thing he’d ever experienced—the way the world seemed to stop and hum as they stared at each other, as if immobilized by a swarm of bees circling above their heads.

  Lady Agatha did not look away. She did not flinch or cringe or recoil or jump or show any reaction at all at being caught in so blatant a study of him. She did not pretend to suddenly be fascinated by the seam of her glove or a spot on the floor. She kept her head straight and her eyes fixed and her expression blank.

  Addleson remained still, as well, his own gaze as constant as hers, as the seconds ticked by. He couldn’t say what he was doing exactly. Not staring. No, sir, for he would never engage in such deliberately boorish and rude behavior. Observing, perhaps. Lady Agatha, with her severe black eyes, resolute chin and implausibly pert nose, was certainly a curiosity as worthy of close examination as the root of the sunset hyssop. Categorizing the act as mere observation, however, was too feeble and failed to account for the compulsive nature of the moment because, yes, there was something about it that felt a little beyond his control. Maybe it was merely a contest, a battle to see whose will was stronger, and Addleson, a competitive sort, could not bring himself to abandon the field.

  The problem with that simple explanation, which the viscount favored because it was so straightforward, was it did not account for the buzz that continued to sound in his ears. The hum was an odd development, to be sure, but with his well-established skepticism of superlatives, he doubted that it was truly the strangest thing that had ever happened to him, for how could such a momentous event happen there, in Lord Bolingbroke’s tasteful drawing room during his tedious soiree in the middle of a tiresome discussion of beach grass by an international bore?

  No, nothing of import had occurred, except, perhaps, the viscount’s reluctant acquisition of the word cultivar, which he intended to forfeit as soon as he exited the building.

  With this concise thought in his head, Addleson decided the bizarre—though, obviously, not most bizarre—moment had gone on long enough and resolved to look away. He had better things to do than to stare down an odd female. But before he could bring himself to look away, the appalling girl raised her left eyebrow. The movement was subtle yet calculated, and though she revealed no humor in the curve of her lips or in the depth of her eyes, the viscount could feel her amusement.

  If they had indeed been engaged in a contest of stares, then Lord Bolingbroke’s daughter had handily prevailed. But just because she had taken the first round did not mean she had won the competition.

  Although it felt to Addleson as if several minutes had passed, it had in fact been only a few seconds and Mr. Petrie was still discussing the concentration of Ammophila breviligulata along the American coastline.

  “What I refer to in my articles as a sand dune, which, if you are not familiar with the term, means—”

  Addleson tilted his head to the side. “I apologize for the interruption, Mr. Petrie, but did you just say sand dune?”

  The American continued his explanation for another few seconds (“a hill of sand compiled by the…”) before he realized the viscount had spoken. “What? Yes. Ah, the sand dune. It’s a rather difficult concept to grasp if you’ve never seen one. You see, it’s a hill of sand compiled by the—”

  Addleson stopped him with a firmly raised hand. “No need to explain. I know exactly what a sand dune is because just this afternoon Lady Agatha was kind enough to introduce me to them,” he explained with a pointed look at the woman in question. “She has a veritable passion for sand dunes, and I couldn’t live with myself if I deprived her of the opportunity of discussing them with another devotee.”

  At once, Mr. Petrie’s face lit up and he looked eagerly at his host’s daughter, who was, as per her habit, standing by herself at the edge of the room. Her customary pose, which typically included an intimidating frown, had caused the Earl of Halsey to observe that the Bolingbroke chit wasn’t so much a wallflower as a wallweed.

  Mr. Petrie, either knowing nothing of her reputation or too overcome with enthusiasm to consider it, strode to her side in four quick steps. “What a pleasure to discover an enthusiast,” he announced, his smile wide and bright. “You must tell me where you’ve attained your knowledge. I know it was not from my very insightful article in Scientifica because that esteemed journal is not published here, which is part of my purpose in coming to London: I hope to find an English publisher for my collected works. I have several meetings arranged with a variety of respected firms, including Thomas Egerton, whose Military Library series is quite well admired. I’m sure you await details of my meetings with eagerness, as do all of my admirers, and I promise to report back as soon as I hear good news.”

  If Lady Agatha was taken aback to hear herself described as an admirer of the obscure American naturalist, she did not reveal it. Her expression, which had darkened immediately upon Mr. Petrie’s sudden approach, had remained surly throughout the whole of his speech.

  “Sand dunes,” Addleson explained, and the black eyes darted to him, displaying none of the steady calm of only a few moments before. “I’ve informed Mr. Petrie of your love of sand dunes and he rushed over here to share his fondness with you.”

  This communication did nothing to improve Lady Agatha’s temper. If anything, her expression grew stormier as she pulled her eyebrows together, and Addleson, recognizing the expression from their exchange at the theater three days before, knew she was trying to think of something deflating to say. On that
occasion, she had failed to issue a cutting reply, a development that had surprised the viscount, who, like many of the ton, knew Lady Agony only by reputation.

  Addleson had not visited the Duchess of Trent’s box with the intention of teasing the notorious misanthrope. He had simply wanted to compliment Miss Harlow on attaining membership to his cousin’s gardening club. Although it seemed like a dubious accomplishment to him—wasn’t she now obligated to attend meetings?—he recognized its significance, for she was the first woman ever to achieve the honor. He’d assumed the call would be brief, but the presence in the box of Moray and Sir Charles ensured that the visit was long and generously sprinkled with facts about drainpipes, as irrigation was, according to his cousin, Miss Harlow’s specialty.

  Amid the lively chatter of the box—Lady Bolingbroke’s liberal use of gardening terms, the duchess’s pointed attempts to change the subject, Moray’s effusive admiration for Miss Harlow’s hose invention—Lady Agatha stood quietly with her eyes unfocused, a look of intense concentration on her face as if solving a great puzzle. Thoughtfulness was not what one expected from the famous Lady Agony, whose features were said to be permanently arranged in a scowl, and his playful sense of humor, always ready to tease at the slightest provocation, could not resist a lighthearted quip. And that was all he had done: made gentle fun of the way she had closed her eyes as if trying to shut out the world, an impulse he understood only too well. In a flash, her eyes had flown open and she had stared at him with a mixture of horror and confusion and, watching, he could almost see the wheels in her head spinning as she tried to figure out who he was and why he was speaking to her. Spurred on by the mischievous imp that incited most of his absurdity, he prattled inconsequentially about his tailor for several minutes and had the pleasure of seeing a series of fascinating expressions cross her face.