by Lynn Messina
Agatha smiled, as if unperturbed by this explanation, but silently she fumed over the unlikely sequence of events. If Viscount Addleson had not made his preposterously generous offer for another drawing, Mrs. Biddle would not have been so overcome by avarice as to dash over to Jermyn Street and give away the game. How the shop owner knew of Mr. Floris and his location was another troubling matter. Apparently, her elaborate system was not nearly as intricate as she’d thought.
Deciding no verbal response was necessary, Agatha merely nodded in acknowledgment and escorted Townshend to the door. He paused with his hand on the knob while he examined her thoughtfully.
“I am in earnest, Lady Agatha,” he said amiably, as if commenting on the weather rather than reiterating a threat. “I will expose you to society if you don’t comply with my request. No doubt you think you are very clever and will find a way to outmaneuver me. The effort is charming but futile, for, I assure you, no woman has ever bested me and no woman ever shall.”
The arrogance of the statement begged for a reply, but Agatha knew better than to provoke him and merely nodded again. Townshend, mistaking diplomatic silence for female compliance, preened with satisfaction at her ready acquiescence. “I look forward to our collaboration.”
“As do I,” she said with just enough sincerity to cause him to smile.
With a tip of his hat, Townshend took his leave, and Agatha carefully studied his departing frame as it left her home. What a repellent human being.
Now that he was gone, the panic she had managed to control during their interview overtook her and her left hand began to tremble in earnest. She had to find a way to get out from under his thumb. She simply had to. Otherwise she would be left with a set of impossible choices: ruin her own reputation or ruin the reputation of an innocent woman.
If she had no alternative, if every attempt to defeat Townshend came to naught, she would chose the former. Of course she would, for she would not be able to live with herself if she caused Vinnie further damage. It wasn’t a matter of doing what was right; it was a matter of doing what was bearable.
And yet even as she settled on her decision, she felt the insidious worm of cowardice coiling through her soul. Her own ruin would be complete and irrevocable. Once revealed as Mr. Holyroodhouse, she would be beyond redemption, a pariah who had betrayed her own kind. She would not be able to brazen it out or laugh off the episode as a very good lark. She would simply cease to exist in the eyes of the beau monde.
The thought, to her surprise, was utterly intolerable. Yes, she loathed the obligations of society and the demands they made on her time, but now, as she stood on the edge of exile—on the edge, it would seem, of getting everything she had ever wanted—she realized she did not want it at all. She did not relish having to interact with other human beings, but the prospect of being cut off from them entirely felt more lonely than she could bear. There was a value, she’d discovered, in being among one’s peers.
In comparison to banishment, Vinnie’s punishment would be mild, for the accusation would always remain speculative. There was no proving or disproving the charge of murder. The Bow Street Runners were not going to dig up the corpse of Sir Waldo Windbourne and examine it for suspicious marks. Agatha did not know if posthumous study of a body was possible, but even if it was, nobody would order such an extreme undertaking based on a few renderings of an anonymous artist.
Vinnie might be made uncomfortable by the publication of another drawing—a few sticklers might give her the cut direct, some high-minded hostesses might exclude her from their guest lists—but on the whole her life would proceed unchanged. At worst, her fiancé, Huntly, whom Vinnie herself described as impeccably courteous, might decide he could not abide by the gossip and end their arrangement. Such a consequence would be regrettable, of course, but it did not equal the pain of banishment from polite society. And, truly, was it not better for a lady to discover the paltriness of her true love’s regard before she said her vows?
In a few months’ time, the chatter would die down and Vinnie’s life would return to normal. Agatha’s never would.
Disgusted by these thoughts and angry at herself for having them, Agatha struck her fist against the door frame, which had the immediate effect of bruising her knuckles. Excellent, she thought, nursing her right hand. Now she was disgusted, angry and in pain—an ideal combination for lucid thinking.
Don’t forget panicked, she reminded herself grimly. One hand hurt; the other hand trembled.
Action was required—immediate, decisive, inexorable action—but nothing could be done until she cleared her head. Fear and repulsion did not oil the tricky machinery of the mind. The only thing that ordered her brain was drawing, so she presented herself to her studio at once and picked up her sketch book. Her fingers ached as she clutched the pen, but rather than ring for Ellen to bring a cold compress, she decided to suffer the discomfort as the well-deserved consequence of foolish behavior. But it was not the blow to the door frame that she condemned but her entire history as Mr. Holyroodhouse. How idiotic it seemed to her now that she’d ever believed she would be able to get away with the ruse indefinitely, and the throbbing in her hand, a minor sting compared with the pain her soul suffered, felt symbolic of the entire calamity. She had caused her own wounds. To her hand and to her soul—she had inflicted the damage. Vinnie had not.
Briefly, Agatha closed her eyes and for a moment she could see the entire scene clearly: Townshend prostrate on the floor, his nose pressed into the tiles of the Duke of Trent’s conservatory; Miss Lavinia Harlow sitting on his back, her eyes bright as she flipped through the British Horticultural Society’s bylaws; and the caption that took the triumph out of Townshend’s infuriating boast: “No woman has ever bested me and no woman ever shall.”
As she drew, Agatha’s sense of helplessness gave way to feelings of competence and control. Townshend had been bested once, which meant it could be done, and something that could be done once, could be done again. Of that, she was certain. The key was Miss Harlow’s entry into the horticultural society, for it was the most logical way for her to have earned the detestable gentleman’s enmity. She recalled the deal the Harlow sisters had struck for her father’s support—two outings to make Lady Agony fashionable—and wondered if Townshend had likewise been approached. The existence of that known agreement indicated an attempt to influence the opinions of the voting members. Perhaps where a benign exchange could not be made, a different sort of pressure was applied.
It seemed highly unlikely that the affable Miss Harlow had blackmailed the prickly Mr. Townshend, yet Agatha, unable to think of a better explanation, settled on that angle as the best one to investigate. The obvious place to start was at the scene of the crime itself, for the British Horticultural Society kept impeccable records of its proceedings. All she had to do was convince the manager of the society’s business affairs to let her take a look at the record of its recent meetings.
Dealing with Mr. Berry would be tricky, for she knew him to be a kind but straitlaced individual who passionately guarded the dignity of the organization that employed him. She could not simply walk through the front door and as the daughter of Lord Bolingbroke request to see the private accounts. Not only would Mr. Berry emphatically deny her request, but he would most likely report her unusual behavior to her father. Needless to say, that occurrence must be avoided at all costs.
The only thing for it was to pay the call dressed as someone else. She could not imagine any lady for whom Mr. Berry would open the society’s books, for he was far too conservative in his judgments to think a female worthy of their study. No, she would have to adopt the identity of a gentleman in order to get the information, but what gentleman could it be? Someone Mr. Berry respected but was not too familiar with to notice the discrepancy in his appearance.
Mr. Petrie, she thought with excitement. He was an honored guest of the horticultural society. Surely, his request to see the minutes would be granted without hesitation.<
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No sooner had she conceived of the idea than she dismissed it, for not only was the American’s physical appearance impossible for her to re-create—he towered over her from an unnatural height—he wasn’t even in London at the moment. The day before, he had left for Bath to meet with a publisher and would not return for five more days.
Borrowing Mr. Petrie’s identity was not an option, but the visiting naturalist could still be of use, for there was his assistant, Mr. Clemmons, to consider. The gentleman had been too sick to travel on the same ship as his employer, but that didn’t mean he could not have recovered in time to board the next steamer to London. Charged with his first duty since arriving, Clemmons could present himself at the offices of the horticultural society and request access to its private documents in a mission to discover information. Mr. Petrie wanted to set up an analogous organization in the colonies and tasked him with discovering as much as possible about the well-run institution. No doubt that commendatory undertaking would gratify Mr. Berry’s ego.
Excited by her idea, Agatha began working on the most daunting aspect of the subterfuge: imitating the American accent. As a gently bred young lady and a skilled artist, she had never had cause to adopt a foreign accent and had no knowledge of the basics. It would be highly irregular if she hired an actress to tutor her—time consuming, as well, for how would she find this helpful thespian—so she contented herself with copying Mr. Petrie’s peculiar way of pronouncing words. The key, she realized, was to overproduce her Rs and to flatten her vowels.
Methodically, she worked, honing her accent while adding features to Mr. Townshend’s surly face. She exaggerated his eyebrows and doubled the weight of his jowls. She did several versions of Vinnie’s expression, finally setting her face into a look of complete indifference, as if she were entirely unaware that the comfortable chair upon which she sat was the humiliated figure of Luther Townshend.
She toiled diligently for almost three hours, impatiently shrugging off Ellen when the maid appeared to announce dinner, and when Agatha finished her drawing, she not only had an acerbic lampoon of Mr. Townshend’s vanity but a plan to free herself from it as well.
Chapter Nine
Although Viscount Addleson did not frequently decide to drop family members, as he had so few of them whom he liked, he realized as Edward Abingdon stopped his curricle in front of the British Horticultural Society that he had no choice but to ruthlessly remove his cousin from his life.
“I have nothing but respect for your passion for horticulture, as I believe it’s important for a young gentleman to care strongly for something as a blind against cynicism. Look at me, I have given my life over to the pursuit of the perfect waistcoat and I assure you it has not been in vain, for every day I grow a little bit closer to attaining my goal,” Addleson explained reasonably. “But your insistence that I share your passion is intolerable and, since you are not my heir, as that distinction belongs to a dull-witted squire whose interest in waistcoats is nonexistent, I feel no compunction in permanently parting ways.”
His cousin laughed as if a cruel threat had not just been issued. “This stop will only take a moment, and then we shall continue to Gentleman Jackson’s salon. I assure you, our appointment there is real and not a fiction I created to lure you here. Despite what you fear, I’m not lobbying for your inclusion in the horticultural society. I cannot think of a worse circumstance than to be trapped in a meeting hall with you. Now do let’s step inside so that I may complete my business swiftly and we can be on our way.”
Addleson continued to stare at Edward with a wary eye. “I cannot imagine what business has to be conducted en route to Gentleman Jackson’s. Surely, it can wait until after our session.”
“Time is of the essence,” Edward explained as he climbed out of the carriage. “Mr. Petrie’s secretary—you recall Mr. Petrie from Bolingbroke’s soiree?—he has arrived in town and is in possession of some information vital to my well-being. At this very moment, he is visiting with Mr. Berry and I do not want to lose the chance to consult with him. As I said, it will take but a moment.”
Remembering the tedium of the evening, Addleson seriously doubted that the secretary of the infamous American bore would be succinct. He expected this brief errand would consume the rest of the day and began to consider dropping his cousin in earnest. Of course he knew Edward wasn’t really trying to recruit him for his gardening club, but his genuine lack of respect for the viscount’s time was troubling. His valet took up too many of his free hours for him to accept an additional burden now.
On a sigh, Addleson entered the cheerful quarters of the British Horticultural Society, with its airy entranceway and comfortable wingback chairs. Mr. Berry, an animated man of mild affability who neatly handled the organization’s business affairs, was quietly sorting through a stack of publications on his desk. He glanced up at his visitors and immediately rose to his feet.
“Mr. Abingdon,” he said warmly, “what an unexpected pleasure. Do come in. Please do. And Lord Addleson, it is an honor to welcome you to the heart of our operations.”
“I’m not here to trouble you, Mr. Berry,” Abingdon announced, as the clerk rushed to assure him he was no trouble at all. “I’ve just come to see Clemmons. Moray said he spotted him here over an hour ago.”
Mr. Berry nodded eagerly. “Yes, yes, he’s here. He came at the request of Mr. Petrie, who is so impressed with our organization that he intends to establish one just like it in New York. Naturally, of course, he cannot establish one just like it, as our institution is unique, with a long and storied history that cannot be replicated. I suspect Mr. Petrie will find it impossible to re-create the rigorous academic atmosphere we have established here, although I would never do anything to discourage his making the attempt. I know it is futile and you know it’s futile, but misplaced optimism is an essential part of the gardening process.”
“As it is an essential part of the American character,” Addleson added.
The clerk beamed at him. “You are correct, my lord.”
“Where is Clemmons now?” Abingdon asked.
“He is in the library reading the minutes of our most recent meetings,” Mr. Berry explained. “I realize sharing our private notes is highly irregular and I fully intended to deny the request, even though I respected his endeavor and, frankly, expected nothing less of Mr. Petrie. When Mr. Petrie was here earlier in the week, I noted a particularly avaricious gleam in his eye as he examined our lecture hall and naturally assumed he would want to create a similar temple to learning in New York. Actually, I had declined, but the Earl of Moray, who had spent a quiet morning reading the recent issue of The Journal of the British Horticultural Society, insisted I was being needlessly frugal with our knowledge and assured Clemmons it would be no problem for him to review our private materials.”
Although Addleson thought Mr. Berry was being needlessly generous with his knowledge, for two words—the library—would have been a sufficient answer, he followed the clerk into the large, book-lined room without complaining. Sunlight poured through a south-facing window, providing light for the solitary figure who leaned over a large ledger. Clemmons was so engrossed in his reading, he visibly jumped when Mr. Berry announced visitors. Immediately, he stood.
To the viscount’s relief, Mr. Berry was relatively concise in his introductions, rambling only for a minute about the society’s illustrious Mr. Abingdon, a description that amused his cousin, who had never known him to “quake with insight,” as the enthusiastic clerk put it.
While Mr. Berry spoke, Addleson examined Mr. Adolphus Clemmons, who cut a rather unimpressive figure, with his slight build and an unfortunate black mole that seemed to cling to the edge of his right nostril. His complexion was slightly off, indicating he had yet to recover fully from his grave illness, and his lips seemed like narrow strips against the broad plains of his face. His dark hair, speckled with a surprising amount of gray for one so young, emerged in clumps from his head.
His clothes, though neat and clean, clearly marked him as an American provincial, for his attempt to ape the elegant style of an English gentleman was woefully inadequate. His tailcoat, single-breasted with wide lapels and narrow sleeves that gathered at the shoulder, was an appallingly bright shade of pomona green. The way he was wearing his pantaloons further highlighted his ignorance, for even the most rural of one’s rural cousins knew the straps were worn under the shoe during the day; under the foot was only appropriate at night. Ultimately, however, it was the fit of the garments that proclaimed him a yokel, for they were not at all customized to suit his slim frame. Either Clemmons did not grasp the concept of tailoring or he was wearing another man’s clothes. The latter seemed more likely to him, and he imagined the secretary stopping at a charity shop on his way into town from the docks for an added dose of gravitas.
“Mr. Clemmons, I cannot tell you how pleased I am that you were able to make the journey,” Edward said with such force, the poor provincial looked positively terrified. His dark eyes almost popped out of his head.
He coughed several times before saying, “Really?”
Edward nodded emphatically. “Yes, yes, for you hold a piece of knowledge I simply must have. You see, I had an extensive discussion with Mr. Petrie about Simmondsia chinensis and he was unable to recall a detail that is of the utmost importance to me. He stated forthrightly, however, that you would be in possession of the information. So, Mr. Clemmons, do be kind enough to tell me how one improves the viscosity of jojoba oil during refinement.”
