The Bolingbroke Chit: A Regency Romance

by Lynn Messina

  Mrs. Biddle employed this ruse now as she beheld the elegant figure of Jonah Hamilton, Viscount Addleson. He was a dandy, she could tell that immediately, for only a dandy tied a cravat so elaborately. Mrs. Biddle had a special contempt for dandies because they were the most entrenched objectors. Placing a high value on perfection, they could not bear to see a version of themselves that was less than ideal.

  “Sorry, I am. Really. I would gives you the name if I knew it,” Mrs. Biddle said, feigning agitation. “Me ’usband, Mr. Biddle, ’e runs the place. I’m jest ’is servant. I’d find ’im for you, really I would, but I don’t knows where ’e is. Prolly drunk in an alley, the no good louse! Rumming it up all the time and leaving me ’ere to deal with the likes of you. I don’t knows anything, I tell you! I don’t knows anything.”

  Here Mrs. Biddle scrunched her face up and squeezed out one melancholy tear that slowly glided down her pale cheek. A second and third drop followed in rapid succession until her entire body was wracked with anguished despair.

  The tears were, in fact, Mrs. Biddle’s pièce de résistance. She used to bring them out only as a last resort, but she had discovered through a process of trial and error that they effectively brought all encounters to an end. No man wanted to assuage a crying female with whom he had no familial or contractual obligation.

  “Brava!” Addleson cried out, clapping his hands in enthusiastic appreciation. “Brava!”

  Mrs. Biddle contrived a sad little hiccup and raised her head slowly to find the viscount grinning at her broadly from ear to ear.

  “A magnificent performance, my dear,” he said approvingly. “Quite one of the most impressive I’ve ever seen.” Addleson bowed. “You have my compliments. Now do be so kind as to give me Mr. Holyroodhouse’s direction and I shall get out of your way posthaste.”

  Addleson watched in amusement as the shopkeeper tried to make sense of his response, which was, without a doubt, a first for her. Clearly, she had expected him to react to her own helplessness with either sympathy or frustration or even pronounced indifference, but he was surely the only gentleman to express admiration for her presentation.

  And the admiration was genuine. Rarely had he seen a more affecting or sincere performance. Her tears in particular—the way they started slowly and gradually gathered momentum like a rainstorm—were humbling to behold. If he didn’t fear she would bash him over the head with a broom, he would ask her to teach him the trick. As a frequent dissembler himself, he knew being able to cry on command was a worthwhile skill.

  Precisely because he was a dissembler, he had easily recognized a like-minded soul. As he had said, her performance was impeccable, but she had done little things that gave her away, such as peeking up at him out of the corner of her eye to see how her tears affected him.

  Although his response had put a cork in her wheel, the determined Mrs. Biddle refused to abandon her role. “I don’t knows wot you’re saying, melord, I don’t. Was you banged in the ’ead before coming in?”

  The viscount applauded again, then smothered a smile when he saw annoyance flash across her face.

  “I appreciate your dedication to your craft, Mrs. Biddle, but it is wasted on me,” he explained calmly as he rested an elbow on the counter. “No doubt, many an outraged customer has been turned away by your deft simulation of misery and so they should be, for anyone who is fooled by your performance deserves to depart in ignorance. Now, as I said before, point me in Mr. Holyroodhouse’s direction and I will leave you in peace.”

  Mrs. Biddle examined him silently for a long moment, then sighed. “I’m sorry, my lord, but I cannot help you. It is my established policy not to give out private information for the men who provide me with illustrations.”

  Addleson wasn’t at all astonished to hear the woman speak in clear, modulated tones. Nor was he surprised to hear her talk of policies. As the owner of a large estate, he knew much about the policies of tradespeople, and the policy they held most dear was that money was dear. He, therefore, offered her a tidy sum in exchange for the address.

  “I don’t know his address,” she said.

  Addleson doubled his offer.

  She shook her head regretfully. “You are killing me, my lord, because I haven’t given an honest answer in half a dozen years. But it’s the God’s honest truth that I don’t know where Mr. Holyroodhouse lives. My contact with him is very limited. I promise, however, to convey your anger and righteous disapproval for his drawing in my next communication.”

  Now the viscount lifted his eyebrows in surprise. “Disapproval?” he asked, his tone full of wonder. “How can anyone disapprove of such a brilliant depiction? I don’t want to take Mr. Holyroodhouse to task. I want to hire him to do a large reproduction of the masterpiece to hang in my study at home.”

  At the mention of the word hire, Mrs. Biddle’s whole demeanor changed: Her eyes lit up, her mouth softened, and she leaned forward against the counter. “Hire, you say?” she asked softly.

  “Hire,” Addleson repeated firmly. “As Mr. Holyroodhouse’s representative in all business matters, you would no doubt get a cut of that commission.”

  “And how large a commission will that be?” she asked.

  “Very,” he said.

  Mrs. Biddle nodded and the viscount could see her doing the arithmetic in her head: price of illustration + finder’s fee – artist’s compensation = large and well-deserved reward for dealing with the inconveniences of owning a print shop.

  In truth, Addleson would be genuinely shocked if Mr. Holyroodhouse earned more than 10 percent of the payment.

  Satisfied with her calculations, Mrs. Biddle promised to get in touch with the artist that afternoon. “I said I don’t know where he lives and that’s the God’s honest truth, but we have a system for communication. I expect to hear back from him in a day or two. How may I reach you?”

  The viscount placed his calling card on the counter and thanked Mrs. Biddle for her help.

  “Any time, my lord,” she said earnestly, running her fingers over the engraved words. “Any time at all.”

  “Good day, then,” he said, dipping his head.

  “We have several prints left, my lord,” she said as he turned to leave. “Since you are so fond of the artwork, perhaps you would like to buy a few copies to give out to your friends.”

  At this suggestion, which was, he admitted, an entirely reasonable one, he laughed heartily. The unexpected sound, so full of sincere amusement, filled the small shop and caused its practical-minded keeper to gawk. “I like you, Mrs. Biddle, and because I do, a word of advice. Get yourself another wedding ring. The one you are wearing is far too fine for the wastrel you’ve decided to cast as your husband. It’s a small detail,” he conceded, as she continued to stare at him in surprise, “but details are what make a character believable.”

  And with that, he left.

  ***

  Although being portrayed as too addle-witted to sit in the House of Lords did little to prick Viscount Addleson’s vanity, having this depiction be the second-most-talked-about caricature at Lord Paddleton’s ball genuinely annoyed him. After all, it wasn’t every day a fellow found himself thoroughly mocked in print—and how clever the mockery had been! Mr. Holyroodhouse had summed up the situation with concision, humor and insolence.

  Addleson wasn’t surprised by Mr. Holyroodhouse’s skill, of course, for he had been an admirer of the artist for years and had long hoped to one day secure his notice. The sense of accomplishment he should have felt at finally attaining a cherished goal, however, was undercut by the appearance of a second victim of Mr. Holyroodhouse’s pen. It was hardly fair, as the cartoonist rarely produced two drawings in one fortnight, let alone two in a single day. His contemporaries were far more prolific, which made their attention far less valuable.

  To be fair, Addleson’s ire did not stem only from the fact that he had to share the ridicule with another subject. It was the quality of the other drawing as well, for it was well
beneath Mr. Holyroodhouse’s usual standards. It did not skewer a convention or deflate an ego or redefine a situation; it merely accused an innocent young lady of murder.

  Like everyone else in the Paddletons’ ballroom, the viscount was confused by the charge, which seemed to have materialized out of thin air like a spirit. It wasn’t as if the ton had been speculating for months about Sir Waldo’s death or murmuring quietly about his fiancée’s guilt. The unfortunate event had elicited only titters of amusement at his humiliating end and resolutions to avoid a similar fate.

  And yet Mr. Holyroodhouse had all but declared Miss Lavinia Harlow a murderess.

  It wasn’t as simple as all that, of course. The drawing itself could be interpreted in a variety of ways, and the woman tightening the corset to a lethal degree looked like Miss Harlow only very, very slightly. But an entire world was contained in that very, very slightness, as he discovered when he’d arrived an hour before to find it the topic on everyone’s lips.

  “It’s absurd, of course,” his cousin Edward said reasonably to a group of gentlemen that included the Earl of Hardwick and Mr. Smythson, “for I have talked to the woman personally and cannot believe that anyone who cares so passionately about the proper drainage of watering systems could be so indifferent to the sanctity of human life. At the same time”—here he lowered his voice as if revealing a dark secret—“I can’t bring myself to ignore it entirely, for surely Mr. Holyroodhouse would have no cause for making a baseless accusation.”

  Naturally, Addleson understood the logic of his cousin’s deduction—and why the rest of the ton had reached the same conclusion—but he was nevertheless annoyed at the simplistic thinking. Gossip was such a destructive force precisely because nobody could imagine anyone being so immoral as to simply make up a story from whole cloth.

  Offended on principle, as well as on behalf of the young lady herself, who would surely never hurt a fly, let alone a fiancé, Addleson interrupted Edward to complain about his inconsideration. “You do realize, I trust, that Mr. Holyroodhouse also caricatured me today?” he asked in his most cynical drawl. “The cruel gentleman showed me carrying a chair in the House of Lords like a veritable idiot. Is that not worthy of endless conjecture? Is Viscount Addleson really that addle-witted? Discuss!”

  Neither Hardwick nor Smythson knew how to respond to this bizarre demand, other than to think that the viscount’s positing of such an outlandish thesis in fact confirmed it. Edward, however, knew how his cousin’s mind worked and recognized his nonsense for the rebuke it was. He duly changed the subject to that weekend’s race at Newmarket.

  Given the parameters of civility, which he himself felt constrained to observe, the viscount was unable to intrude on every conversation that considered Miss Harlow’s guilt, but he made considerable progress and his efforts were aided by the Dowager Duchess of Trent, whose look of stern disapproval was more than enough to silence even the most vigorous wagging tongue.

  The only person who wasn’t furiously speculating as to the immorality of Miss Lavinia Harlow was Lady Agatha, whose back was pinned to the far wall like a swath of linen to a dress form. Her shoulders stiff and her face pale, she observed the gathering with blank eyes, which was, he realized, an unusual posture for the young misanthrope. She was frequently detached from the company, yes, but tonight she seemed removed.

  Having just finished a set with Miss Hedgley, whom he had to chastise twice before she would give his caricature due consideration and even then she pretended not to understand it (“All members of Parliament carry a heavy burden, my lord”), he was eager to talk to someone whose intelligence, if not temperament, he respected.

  “Lady Agatha,” he said brightly as he joined her along the wall, “we must discuss the drawing.”

  She jumped. There was no other way to describe how her feet left the ground for a fraction of a second at his announcement. Her face, already ashen, grew another shade paler, and her expression took on a trapped quality.

  Taken together, these three qualities indicated fright, but what could the indomitable Lady Agony have to fear in the mention of Mr. Holyroodhouse? Not of being mocked by the great man himself, for she had already had the pleasure on more than one occasion. Perhaps the random attack on someone as modest and unimposing as Lavinia Harlow made her realize they were all vulnerable to the scurrilous pen of a scoundrel.

  Seeking to put her at ease, he said gently, “I mean, of course, the representation of me as a parliamentary neophyte who does not know what to do with his seat. I contend, of course, that I in fact do know what to do with my seat and that is to replace it with one that has a cushion. I would also, while I’m making changes to suit my superior taste, replace the tapestries. The depictions of the Spanish Armada are magnificent, of course, but too dreary with the weight of history to aid in the production of new laws. In the interest of efficient governance, I would suggest more elegant adornment.”

  If anything, this speech increased her discomfort, for her impossibly pale complexion seemed to lose yet another shade. In a moment, she would be as white as his shirt.

  Her tone when she spoke, however, gave no indication of her obvious distress. “No doubt a reproduction of Mr. Holyroodhouse’s illustration would meet your requirements, made larger, of course, so that your clever ministrations could be admired by your peers.”

  Addleson did not consider himself easily impressed, but Lady Agatha’s articulate attempt at deflating his ego while clearly distracted by her own miseries struck him as a notable achievement. “We are as two peas in a pod,” he observed with an eager smile, “for I had the very same thought and just this morning commissioned Mr. Holyroodhouse to produce a larger version for my study. I cannot think of anything more pleasurable than looking up from a tedious document on salt importation taxes and seeing that excellent image staring down at me. But I wonder if hanging it in the Lesser Hall would make me appear overly fond of myself, an impression I am loath to give. I wish to appear only the proper amount of fond of myself. Perhaps you can suggest what that is.”

  Lady Agatha stared at him silently for a long moment, thoughtful consideration knit in her brows. “You are mocking me,” she said.

  The viscount, who considered mockery to be his mother tongue, felt the unexpected sting of embarrassment at her charge. The truth was, he hadn’t meant to mock her, not entirely, for his original intent had been only to bring color to her pallid face. For some reason, he found her air of absolute wretchedness disagreeable to observe.

  “I am not,” he said simply, his tone quietly insistent as he looked into her eyes. There was something about her eyes—as dark as a cavern, as deep as a pit—that pulled at him. “I understand why you would think that, for I find many things worthy of jest, but I was not offering ridicule but comfort. You seem troubled by something, and I sought to distract you with chatter. I know I can be a frivolous fellow, but I’m actually quite good in a crisis. If you would but tell me what’s distressing you, I am certain I could provide some assistance.”

  Now her dark solemn gaze clouded with suspicion as she wondered what his game was. How surprised she would be, he thought, if she knew he had no game.

  He was surprised himself.

  Rather than spill her secrets, she tilted her head and asked, “You really want to hang a large reproduction in your study?”

  An earnest query about his redecorating plans was not the reaction Addleson was expecting. He hadn’t actually thought the severe Lady Agony would break down in a flood of tears or beg for his help, but a rigid shake of her head coupled with an assurance that nothing was the matter would have been more in keeping with her character.

  “Yes,” he said, curious as to her interest. Perhaps as a fellow object of Mr. Holyroodhouse’s scorn, she could not conceive of looking at one of his illustrations at regular intervals. “I genuinely admire the piece for its concept and execution.”

  A slight blush stained her pale cheeks, and he wondered if she was embarrassed for
him. Far from impressing her with his claim of usefulness, he seemed to have now confirmed her belief in his uselessness, a development that did not amuse him nearly as much as it should have.

  Her next statement revealed neither opinion. “That’s a very nice compliment. I’m sure Mr. Holyroodhouse isn’t so lost to all decency as not to appreciate a very nice compliment such as that.”

  “But he is lost to some decency to have made this allegation against Miss Harlow?” he asked.

  The black orbs of her eyes seemed to blaze as she said, “To have done such a thing, he must be. It’s so obvious what he meant for everyone to think. How indecent and cruel.”

  “It is indecent and cruel,” he agreed, noting how quickly the color had faded from her face. She was once again wan and pale. “I’m gratified to hear you say it because too many of our acquaintances are pondering its truth. But it’s also puzzling, for what purpose could Mr. Holyroodhouse have in making the charge? What does he hope to accomplish? Is it an act of revenge for a perceived insult?”

  “An act of revenge?” she echoed softly. “Miss Harlow would have had to have insulted him greatly to warrant such malicious retaliation. Could any insult be that egregious?”

  The viscount shook his head. “I don’t know. For the answer to that, you will have to ask Mr. Holyroodhouse.”

  Lady Agatha laughed without amusement at the suggestion of tracking down the elusive artist. Having failed at the task himself only that morning, he understood her cynicism.

  “I’m relieved Miss Harlow is not here to suffer the snickers and suspicious looks firsthand,” she added after a moment of consideration. “That would be intolerable.”

  “I am of the same mind,” he said. “The Harlow Hoyden could, I believe, stand up to such rank speculation without flinching, but her sister seems to be of a more delicate nature. It’s best that only the dowager came to defend her honor, for no one would dare talk back to such an imposing woman.”

  His point was proven at that very moment, as the imposing woman herself, who was several feet away, raised her voice over the orchestra to demand that Miss Hedgley clarify her statement. “It's my own fault for growing so old, but my ears don’t work as well as they used to and I didn’t hear the entirety of your statement, my dear. Miss Harlow is what kind of conniving hussy?”