The Bolingbroke Chit: A Regency Romance

by Lynn Messina

  It was hard to say which startled his lordship more—her abrupt movement or the concept of work. Despite the imposing image of himself sneering down at him from his own study wall, the brushstroke of which even he had to concede was masterful, he continued to consider her painting as a genteel hobby to be cast aside when she married. All her attempts to explain otherwise had fallen on deaf ears.

  “What are you doing closeted in here with me, anyway?” she asked, abruptly changing the subject rather than trying yet again to make him to understand. “You should be at Brooks’s savoring your triumph, for your party was a stunning success. Did not a member of the Society for the Advancement of Horticultural Knowledge humble himself so thoroughly as to beg admittance? Surely, someone had laid odds against such a development in the betting books. And we can’t let Waldegrave monopolize our guest. He hasn’t suffered through—I mean, enjoyed the pleasure of—his care and feeding for three days.”

  Although Bolingbroke was not a possessive host, he could not deny the truth of his daughter’s statement. Mr. Petrie was his guest and while it had been a pleasure to feed and house him, the experience wasn’t without its challenges. The American was very particular in his requirements, to the consternation of Bolingbroke’s staff, and yet chaotic in his habits. A tremendous amount of fuss and confusion had been caused upon his arrival at the docks by the fact that he didn’t know what his own trunk looked like, a calamity made worse by the much-regretted absence of Mr. Clemmons, upon whom Petrie clearly relied very heavily.

  Bolingbroke took a final sip of brandy and stood up. “You are right, my dear, to remind me of my duties as host. I should not have been so quick to abandon Mr. Petrie to the vagaries of London. I’m sure Waldegrave is taking sufficient care of him, but no doubt he wants to review with me the pleasures of the evening. If nothing else, he must be aware of our rivalry with the Society for the Advancement of Horticultural Knowledge and will want to revel in its ignominy. I shall head to Brooks’s immediately. You will forgive me, I hope, for cutting our tête-à-tête short?”

  Agatha smothered a smile as she gave her father a second kiss on the cheek, for she was positive he had forgotten the first one. Unlike his wife, Lord Bolingbroke was dismayingly easy to lead astray. “Of course, dear. Don’t tease yourself a single moment more.”

  While her father called for his valet, Agatha swiftly exited the room and ran down the stairs to her studio. In all likelihood, Lady Bolingbroke had retired for the evening, for she had said as much after their guests left, but she had been known to ambush her daughter before and Agatha wasn’t taking anything for granted. A conversation with her mother now would be fatal, as that determined woman could not be swayed from her purpose by a simple change in subject. No, she would go on at such length, Agatha would lose all opportunity to draw.

  Once safely in her studio, Agatha immediately began to sketch. She started with the central figure, elongating Addleson’s chin and increasing the size of his ears. She sought perfection and was frequently ill tempered when a likeness fell short of the original, but she was also accustomed to working quickly. Her opportunities to draw were curtailed by the social calendar and her mother’s whim. On more than one occasion, she’d been forced to cease painting midbrushstroke to change for a dinner party.

  Was it any wonder, then, that she worked so hard not to be invited to dinner parties?

  Tonight, at least, she would not be interrupted, and as the hours passed, she drew dozens of sketches of Addleson, each one with a slight variation from the last. She did not usually spend so much time capturing a single subject, but there was something about the viscount that was proving elusive. First, she thought it was the set of his mouth, slightly amused yet somewhat scornful, but then she realized it was the look in his eyes. There was a deceptive stillness about them that she took for emptiness, but his eyes were not empty. She knew this because every time she drew them with a vacant stare, the image looked wrong. The only time Addleson looked like himself was when she gave his eyes a keen knowingness.

  That wasn’t right either.

  Frustrated, she decided to change her approach altogether and settled on a different idea, one that was much better than the original. Rather than donning a powdered wig in his dressing room, Addleson was lifting a bench in the Lesser Hall at the Palace of Westminster. The caption read: “Viscount Addlewit takes up his seat in the House of Lords.”

  It was, Agatha decided well after midnight when she was finally satisfied, the ideal solution, for not only was the new idea more clever than the original, but it also took the focus away from his lordship’s face.

  Pleased, she signed the caricature in Mr. Martin Holyroodhouse’s florid hand and wrapped it in sturdy brown paper. The responsibility of delivering the package would fall to her lady’s maid, Ellen, whose father worked for a perfumer on Jermyn Street. He, in turn, would slip it discreetly under the back door of Mrs. Biddle’s shop in St. James’s. If there was a note for Agatha, he would find it hidden under the mat on the back step.

  Luckily for Agatha, Mr. Smith was a game fellow who enjoyed a mystery so much, he’d happily agreed to help without asking a single question. If he suspected the whole story, he had never indicated as much to his daughter by word or deed.

  The delivery procedure was somewhat Byzantine in its complexity because Agatha needed to ensure her anonymity. If Lady Bolingbroke discovered the truth—that her socially uningratiating daughter regularly mocked and ridiculed the members of their set—she would throw away everything Agatha cared about: her paints, her inks, her canvases, her sketch pads, her pencils. She would summarily discard every single thing that made her daughter’s life worth living and then banish her to her room to survive on bread and water for years.

  Agatha knew this to be true. Her mother flitted around like a butterfly, darting from one shiny object to another on a wisp of laughter, but she felt things deeply and would not be able to easily dismiss the gross social humiliation of having a caricaturist daughter. As it was, she could barely bear the burden of having an artistic one. To be sure, Lady Bolingbroke never wanted to raise a child with a consuming passion. Like all devoted mothers, she wanted her offspring to be proficient at everything, not to excel at anything.

  With a tired sigh, Agatha opened the door to her room and was immediately greeted by Ellen, who was reading in a comfortable armchair near the fire.

  “Good evening, miss,” she said, raising her blond head in greeting as she marked her page in the book.

  Agatha smiled wanly in return and dropped onto the bed, suddenly exhausted. “Thank you for waiting up. I did not intend for it to be such a late night. I fear I lost track of time.”

  Ellen nodded understandably as she unwrapped the laces on Agatha’s shoes. “I appreciate your concern, but I don’t mind.” She dropped the fawn boots onto the floor while her charge stood up to give her access to the fastenings on the back of her dress. “A note came for you from Mr. Floris,” she said, using the name of her father’s employer, rather than the woman who owned the print shop. It was another precaution they took to protect Agatha’s secret. “It is odd, however, because it doesn’t seem to be from”—she paused awkwardly as she wondered how to say it without mentioning a name—“the, ah, Mr. Floris.”

  As Agatha stepped out of her dress, she glanced at her bedside table and noted that the handwriting on the letter did look different. Perhaps Mrs. Biddle had hired an assistant to attend to her business affairs. The majority of Biddle’s communications with Mr. Holyroodhouse were curt missives conveying compensation for services rendered. Every few months or so, the shop owner included a longer message reporting on the success of her prints in order to give her a sense of how the public responded to her work. This was how she knew that caricatures of the Harlow Hoyden and Lady Agony sold particularly well.

  Yawning, she reached for the letter, then bent her neck as Ellen draped her nightdress over her head. Agatha knew she was supposed to do something with her hair�
�brush it a hundred times to make it shine or wrap it around strips of paper to ensure curls—but she was too practical for such vanities. Even on nights when she wasn’t exhausted to the bone, she refused to submit to anything other than a sturdy nightcap, an eccentricity that both pleased and dismayed her lady’s maid. Ellen delighted in working for such a sensible woman with a sense of purpose but despaired at ever having the opportunity of showing her to her best advantage.

  Agatha climbed into bed as she unfolded the note and perused it with sleepy eyes.

  Dear Mr. Holyroodhouse,

  It is a pleasure to establish contact with you, for I am perhaps your greatest admirer and enjoy with all possible pleasure the drawings you produce. Your recent skewering of Miss Lavinia Harlow was a masterpiece, and you captured the situation with such la élégance that I am in awe of your skill. Your accomplishment was so impressive that I didn’t even notice the harshness with which you treated the other members of the horticultural society, who were, by all accounts, mere bystanders to Huntly’s folly.

  Your drawing, however, did not go far enough, for it showed Miss Harlow to be the harpy she is but not the villain.

  No doubt you are startled by my applying the word villain to such a gently bred young lady. Do not be fooled, Mr. Holyroodhouse, by appearances. As an artist, you must realize that there is much we don’t see seething beneath the surface.

  In the case of Vinnie Harlow, this is especially true.

  I am in possession of sensitive information that is essential to the work you do. Please know that I don’t share it with you lightly but with a heavy heart, for I am but a simple, humble farmer, a good and generous person who treats everyone with the kindness they deserve. I wish that Miss Harlow deserved more kindness, but like all villains she has forfeited that courtesy.

  Now to the information: Miss Harlow’s fiancé’s death was not quite the hapless accident everyone believes it to be. Insider reports indicate that she had a hand in it.

  You are shocked! A refined gentleman such as yourself cannot conceive of such treachery, and I understand. However, you must believe me when I tell you my source is unimpeachable. A great injustice has been done to Sir Waldo, and it’s up to you to bring it to light. I do not mean for you to lay a charge against the woman but for you to subtly but honestly hint at the truth in one of your clever drawings. If she is innocent, then no harm will befall her. But if she is guilty, as I believe, she will begin to act thus and reveal the truth for everyone to see.

  I cannot say more at this time, for to do so would be to endanger us both, but I’m trusting you to do the right thing.

  With the greatest of faith,

  Anon

  Agatha’s sleepiness fell away as she read the letter, her surprise only surpassed by her disbelief. Miss Lavinia Harlow a murderess! The idea was preposterous. Without question, she and her sister were intolerable, with their smug condescension and unconventional behavior and their reckless disregard for the good opinion of the ton.

  She could, she supposed if she stretched her imagination, believe it of Emma, for she was wild, selfish and had seemed many times during her career as if she were careening toward a great disaster. But even then, Agatha could not bring herself to believe it would have been anything other than an accident, one of the many unforeseen outcomes of a rash adventure.

  Surely, the letter was a joke.

  “Where did you say the note came from?” Agatha asked.

  Ellen, who was in the process of hanging up her dress, glanced over and noted the sudden alertness in her mistress’s eyes. “Is something wrong, miss?”

  Although Agatha did not know the answer to the question, she shook her head. “No, I’m just curious about its origins. Was it delivered in the usual fashion?”

  “Under the mat at Mrs. Bi—um, under the usual mat. As you know, my father checks regularly for notes, regardless of whether he delivers a drawing. That missive was waiting for him this morning.” She furrowed her brow as she saw the frown on Agatha’s face. “Are you sure nothing is amiss?”

  Agatha flipped over the sheet of paper thoughtfully and noted that it was much better quality than the sort regularly used by Mrs. Biddle. It was also larger than the narrow strips of paper the shop owner could afford.

  Clearly, this letter did not originate with the frugal Mrs. Biddle. Nor, for that matter, did it come from a simple, humble farmer. There was plenty of that ilk on her family’s estate in Kent, and none employed the word unimpeachable. Indeed, even if they did use it in everyday speech, they wouldn’t know how to spell it. Agatha herself would most likely get it wrong.

  No, this letter clearly came from a gentleman of some education and wealth. The fact that he left it under the mat at Mrs. Biddle’s indicated that he did not know her true identity and had been genuine in his attempt to communicate with Holyroodhouse. But to what end? Was his motive as straightforward as he said? Did he simply want to bring a villain to justice? More to the point: Did he truly believe that someone like her, a mere caricaturist with a perceptive pen, had the ability to bring someone to justice? She certainly did not feel as though she had that power.

  Agatha folded the note and laid it under her pillow. “All is well, Ellen. I’m just fatigued. There is a new drawing for your father to deliver. I’ve left it on my table in the studio.”

  “Very good, miss,” Ellen said as she smoothed a final wrinkle on the gown and carried it to the dressing room. “Sleep well.”

  Agatha closed her eyes, but she was too busy trying to decipher the mystery of the anonymous letter to drift softly to sleep. As a general rule, she did not like puzzles because they were just distractions. Her mother frequently tried to whet her interest with teasing hints about upcoming events. But this mystery was irresistible. Obviously, she did not believe the information to be true, but try as she might, she could not bring herself to dismiss it entirely, for what motive could someone have to lay such an evil charge against Miss Harlow. Surely, there must be a sliver of truth somewhere for the suggestion to have emerged at all.

  Her thoughts returned to the idea of an accident. Perhaps Miss Harlow did not intend any actual harm but inflicted it by mistake. That seemed much more likely than the premeditation the letter insinuated.

  The question then became, what had Miss Harlow done that resulted in death? In what horrifying manner had the man died if not by overtightening the stays in his corset and unintentionally suffocating himself? Surely, the universally accepted explanation of his demise was a clue in itself, for what man died in such a ridiculous manner? How did the writer of the letter discover the truth? Was he a relation of Sir Waldo? A friend? A confidante? Did he have a reason to dislike Miss Harlow? And what about his presenting the information to Mr. Holyroodhouse? Did that act make her source more credible or less? Nobody had ever entrusted such a large responsibility to her before. Did her mysterious correspondent genuinely believe that a caricaturist such as she could bring a villain to justice? Did she believe it?

  It was hours before Agatha fell asleep.

  Chapter Five

  If there was one thing Agatha had learned from her mother, it was how to impose on the privacy of others. The trick, she had observed from years of unrelieved embarrassment, was to pretend absolute obliviousness to the inconvenience one is inflicting. Lady Bolingbroke achieved this effect beautifully by disguising any moment of awkward self-awareness with overly emphatic compliments such as “How droll!” and “You clever miss!” What toll such assertiveness took on her ladyship, Agatha did not know, for her mother was always cheerful and relentlessly positive in her outlook.

  Sitting in the Duchess of Trent’s drawing room, however, Agatha felt her soul slowly shriveling as she tried to make small talk for the first time in her life. She clutched the cushion of the settee with tight fingers in order to stop herself from flying out of the house.

  “This room is lovely, Miss Harlow,” she said to her host, who sat in the armchair adjacent to her, the picture of
innocence as she filled Agatha’s teacup. Her dress in particular—bright yellow and trimmed with florets—seemed especially unlike a murderess’s.

  But if you were a heartless killer, would you not do everything within your power to look sweet and innocent?

  Aware that she was staring, Agatha added, “I like this settee. It’s very”—she ordered herself to quickly think of an adjective that suited a mundane piece of furniture—“cushiony.”

  “Yes,” Miss Harlow said with a bright smile, “it does have a pleasing springiness. I’ve observed that many times.”

  Having paid few social calls in her career, Agatha could not tell if this comment was appropriately bland drawing room conversation or mocking banter. Fearing the latter, she felt her cheeks grow warm and with nothing else to say, she cried, “How droll!” Her exclamation had all of her mother’s vehemence but none of her exuberance, and Agatha felt her entire body turn red.

  If her company noticed anything strange in her behavior, she did not reveal it as she insisted on being called Vinnie. “I’m delighted you decided to call, as we did not have an opportunity to talk at the theater. Did you enjoy the performance?”

  By asking the question, Vinnie was throwing her guest a lifeline, and Agatha knew it. She was far too skilled in deliberate rudeness not to notice when someone was being intentionally kind. As she responded honestly to the query, explaining what she did and did not like about the production of The Merchant of Venice, she wondered if such a well-bred woman could possibly be responsible for a man’s death. She knew better than to equate good etiquette with actual goodness, for she realized many people relied on the social courtesies to hide ill intentions, but she felt there was something meaningful in Vinnie’s brand of decorum. It seemed unlikely to her that someone who sought to put a guest at ease would choose to end a life.