by Lynn Messina
The question was so trivial, so unworthy of a stop at all, let alone a detour from a vigorous boxing session, that Addleson said, “What?”
Mr. Clemmons was also surprised by the query, for he, too, cried, “What?” at the exact same moment.
As annoyed as he was with his cousin, the viscount couldn’t help noticing something very strange about Mr. Clemmons’s exclamation. The quality of his voice was different: higher, less baritone, more—dare he say it?—feminine.
At once, his gaze flew to Mr. Clemmons’s eyes, simmering pools of black, and he thought how very similar they were to Lady Agatha’s.
Instinctively, he dismissed the notion as outrageous. What cause could she have to appear as thus at her father’s revered institution? Clearly, the reason he associated poor Mr. Clemmons with Lord Bolingbroke’s unusual daughter was she had been frequently on his mind since their last meeting, a rare condition for him that he found as irritating as it was intriguing. It was simply a trick of the brain—and a rather disturbing one at that—to see Lady Agony in the visage of a provincial American.
But once the idea was formed, it took hold and Addleson studied the figure more closely, ignoring the poorly fitting clothes that had distracted him from a proper first perusal. The hair, he noted now, was such a marvelous creation, it could only be a wig, one that was decades out of date, judging by the flecks of powder sprinkled in it, and the nose beneath the appalling mole tilted up with a familiar pertness. Then, of course, there were the eyes, Lady Agatha’s piercing, fathoms-deep eyes that looked at him with scorn. He would know them anywhere.
As shocked as he was to find her in such an unlikely position, a part of him wasn’t surprised at all. He didn’t understand Lady Agatha and he couldn’t pretend to comprehend her motives, and yet he had the confounding sense that he knew her. Watching her strive for a semicoherent response to Edward’s ridiculous question, he felt as if he knew her better than he knew anyone in the world.
“Ah, yes, the coveted oil of the Simmondsia chinensis. A very interesting topic, viscosity, but a wretched business all the same,” Lady Agatha said, clearly struggling to keep her deep baritone consistent. Every fourth or fifth word it shrieked upward and then settled down again in the lower register. Edward, eagerly awaiting a long-sought explanation, did not notice. “Yes, of course. The trick, you see, is litharge. Are you familiar with litharge?”
“I am not,” Edward admitted.
“You are not?” Lady Agatha said, seeming to gain confidence at this profession of ignorance. “Well, as I said, the secret is to use litharge, which is a mineral that forms from the oxidation of galena ores. You add litharge to a formulation of piled glass, calcined bones and mineral pigments boiled in linseed oil.”
Listening, Addleson smothered a smile as he realized she was explaining the process by which one made paint—but not the dainty watercolors ladies of her ilk routinely employed. Lady Agatha was describing oils, and Edward, who did not know lapis from lead, was fascinated.
“When the viscosity of the mixture meets your approval,” she continued, “you add it drop by drop into your extraction, stirring with an even hand, until you are satisfied with its thickness. And that, my dear sir, is how you improve the viscosity of jojoba oil during refinement.”
Lady Agatha concluded her talk with such commanding authority, Edward could do nothing but nod in agreement, even though questions remained. His cousin might be clueless about the manufacture of oil paints, but he was not an imbecile. The recipe her ladyship detailed was fraught with inexplicable ingredients such as piled glass, and even the most generous attempt to accept her explanation would be confounded by the inclusion of unspecified pigments.
Well aware of her vulnerability, Lady Agatha took an aggressive stance to end the conversation. “I trust our business is concluded, Mr. Abingdon. I am here to gather useful information at the specific request of Mr. Petrie and I would hate to fall short because I was too busy engaging in conversation. Given that you are familiar with my employer’s habits, I’m sure you won’t be surprised when I tell you he does not appreciate people who talk.”
Edward wrinkled his brow, as if trying to decide if this observation about Mr. Petrie was intended to be a slight, and Addleson jumped into the conversation before his cousin noticed anything amiss about Clemmons’s American accent, which was turning more British with every syllable.
“The gentleman is right, Edward,” he said forcefully, “you must be on your way, for you are already late for your appointment at the salon. I shall remain here to improve my acquaintance with Mr. Clemmons.”
“What?” Edward said, his tone clearly indicating that he wasn’t sure he had heard his cousin correctly.
Agatha, who was equally taken aback by the announcement, found the suggestion so horrifying, she actually sputtered. Unable to form the words of her objection, she stammered, “Bu…bu…bu…” a few times before clamping her mouth shut.
Amused by both their reactions, the viscount wrapped his arm around his cousin’s shoulder and steered him purposefully toward the door. The trick to making people behave as you wished was not giving them an opportunity to act otherwise. “As Mr. Clemmons has professed his aversion to conversation, I’m sure it will take me a while to overcome his opposition. I simply cannot ask you to wait. Having been detained from my purpose this morning by you, I know exactly how rude that is and would never subject you to the same shabby treatment. Now don’t worry about me,” he added over Edward’s continued attempts to interrupt. “I shall hire a hack to get home or allow your efficient Mr. Berry to arrange transportation. I will be perfectly fine. Do say hello to Gentleman Jackson for me and remember to keep your toe and heel aligned. A boxer’s success depends on proper foot placement.”
Despite Addleson’s guidance, Edward stopped abruptly at the door and said firmly, “Jonah, I really don’t think—”
“Right you are, my boy, don’t think,” Addleson agreed, pushing him gently toward the threshold. “Unless it is about your stance. A boxer’s game is built from the ground up. Heel and toe!”
On that last piece of advice, Addleson shut the door in the face of his stunned cousin. Immediately, Lady Agatha called out in her false baritone, “Lord Addleson, sir, this is—”
He raised a finger to his lips to indicate silence and pressed his ear against the door. Hearing nothing, he counted to ten and opened the door a crack. Edward was gone. Relieved that his cousin could be deterred from his purpose so easily, he turned on a sigh of satisfaction and strode across the room.
As he pulled out the chair next to hers, he said, “I apologize for shushing you, but I wanted to make sure he was gone. Now, what were you saying, Lady Agatha?”
Her response was priceless. Oh, was it priceless. Indeed, he would happily suffer through a hundred explanations of how one improved the viscosity of jojoba oil during refinement for the pleasure of seeing it one more time.
“I’m not—” The protest died suddenly when she realized she was using her regular voice. She laughed awkwardly, still in her normal register, and scrunched her face up in an exaggerated look of confusion. “Why would you call me that? I’m not Lady Agatha. Maybe you’re Lady Agatha.” She paused and shook her head. “I mean, who is Lady Agatha?”
Addleson, watching the performance with delight, found her absolutely adorable, a description, he was sure, Lady Agony would find more repellent than being discovered masquerading as a provincial American secretary in the library of the British Horticultural Society.
He did not know what her game was, but there were several clues on the table worth examining, including the minutes from the society’s recent meetings. He glanced at the page and noted it contained a discussion of Miss Lavinia Harlow’s acceptance. Without asking permission, he pulled the book closer to him so he could read it easily.
“Excuse me,” Agatha protested tartly, trying to drag the minutes back into her possession. “I was using that.”
His hold rema
ined firm as he skimmed the document for the missing puzzle piece he knew it must contain. Lady Agatha’s interest in Miss Harlow was not exceptional, for everyone was interested in her now, thanks to Mr. Holyroodhouse’s drawing. But what if her interest was extraordinary?
He recalled her expression at Lord Paddleton’s ball, the look of pure devastation on her face when he suggested they talk about Mr. Holyroodhouse’s drawing. He had meant his own, but she had naturally assumed he was referring to Miss Harlow’s. Her demeanor during the discussion, the way she had blanched when he agreed that the caricaturist was indecent and cruel, indicated a more personal interest in the accused woman’s misery.
Addleson did not think Miss Harlow and Lady Agatha were friends, certainly not intimates who felt the stings and arrows of the other’s misfortune as if they were their own. He had discovered her at the duke’s house, yes, but that visit hardly seemed to be a routine occurrence. The house call was not Lady Agony’s milieu, so why had she paid the visit? What had been her purpose?
“If you don’t release your grip on this book, I’m going to have Mr. Berry eject you from the building,” Lady Agatha announced, this time in the tones of a proper British gentleman. She had gotten the register right but not the accent. Again, Addleson found her wholly adorable, especially when she wrapped her other hand around the book and tugged with all her might.
Her other hand.
Noting the callus on her right index finger, he seized her hand to examine it more closely.
Horrified, Lady Agatha stiffened at once and twisted her wrist to wrench free. Addleson held fast. “Release me at once, my lord,” she demanded.
Rather than comply with her request, he ran his finger over the callus to gauge its firmness. Many ladies had earned calluses in the maintenance of their correspondences, but their marks were dainty compared with the thickening of Agatha’s skin. It could have been produced by a number of longstanding activities, such as writing a novel in the style of Miss Austen or keeping a detailed journal of her experiences. Those explanations, however, failed to consider the other evidence: She knew how to mix paints, she had seemed particularly distressed by Miss Harlow’s situation, she had anticipated his desire to possess a larger version of the drawing, and, of course, the most fascinating clue of all, she had pretended to be Mr. Petrie’s ailing assistant to gain access to the British Horticultural Society’s private records.
He wasn’t sure what all those factors added up to, but he was comfortable enough to make the most outrageous supposition he had ever made in his life.
“You are Mr. Holyroodhouse,” he said.
Lady Agatha turned white. All the color simply disappeared from her face as if it had never been there.
“You are in some sort of trouble,” he continued, unsettled by her stricken look but determined to articulate his outlandish theory all at once so that they could dispense with the denials quickly. “The trouble has something to do with Miss Harlow, whose misery you did not intentionally mean to cause with your drawing. You did cause it, however, and now you are trying to discover information about her that would extricate you from your situation. What the exact nature of your situation is, I cannot say, for my ability to deduce fails me there.”
As he spoke, Lady Agatha stared at him without blinking, her dark eyes made blacker by fear and the pallor of her complexion. She looked like an urchin in those mismatched clothes, oversize and ill-fitting, that absurd wig—how it must itch!—pressing down on a head that dipped from the burden.
It was, he realized, all a burden, whatever it was that had driven her to this juncture, whatever it was that made her stare at him in terror, and watching her, he discovered he wanted to enfold her in a hug, lay her head upon his shoulder and promise her everything would be all right.
Unsettled by the compulsion, he pressed his arms to his sides.
“Everything is going to be all right,” he announced softly, genuinely surprised that he could still his hands but not his tongue. The need to give comfort was not a familiar one to him, and he hadn’t realized how easily it could slip its leash.
Lady Agatha’s expression did not change.
“I told you once I’m quite good in a crisis and I assure you that wasn’t thoughtless braggadocio. I have a well-ordered mind and can fit the pieces of a puzzle together quickly, which I believe I’ve demonstrated,” he said, providing a list of his good qualities. “I relish a challenge, am completely trustworthy and have nothing but respect for Mr. Holyroodhouse’s talent. I want only to assist you and to stand as your friend if you would but let me.”
On a heavy sigh, Lady Agatha closed her eyes and remained motionless for a full minute. The tension in her shoulders did not ease, the color in her face did not return, and Addleson, observing the stillness with which she held herself, feared she was beyond his grasp. Nothing he could say would convince her accept his assistance. Lady Agony did not have friends.
When she finally opened her eyes, Addleson prepared for a polite refusal and wondered how difficult it would be to solve the mystery without her help. It would be challenging but not impossible, for he was already in possession of a fair amount of information and had excellent observational skills. All that was left was to pry into the private business of others, a task that the majority of the ton indulged in regularly with no ill effects. It would be as easy as it was unpleasant.
The matter of why he insisted on lending his support after it had been rejected was also easy and unpleasant: He liked Agatha. She bore little resemblance to the sort of female who usually held his attention, as she had no style, no flash, no flirtatious conversation, no calculated charm. Oh, but the traits she did have—rude, clever, prickly, sly, brave, contrary—tugged at him in ways he neither expected nor understood.
As a man of reason, Addleson was not altogether pleased with the development, for he sensed in his inexplicable admiration for the complicated misanthrope a lack of control on his part. He had never made the conscious decision to like her; he simply discovered one day that he did.
“Mr. Luther Townshend is blackmailing me into publishing further cartoons accusing Miss Harlow of murder,” Lady Agatha stated calmly.
“This Luther Townshend?” he asked, pointing to the name in the horticultural society minutes as another puzzle piece fell into place. “So you are here to discover information that you could use against him.”
It wasn’t a question, but she nodded anyway. “Yes, I thought if I could identify the source of his enmity toward Miss Harlow, it might help me find something to use against him. I think his hatred of her is key, for he loathes her with a passion that is out of proportion to her character or the situation.”
Addleson pulled his chair closer to hers and placed the book between them on the table. “And what have you discovered?”
“Mr. Townshend was vehemently opposed to Miss Harlow’s admittance. The voting protocols of the organization seem quite byzantine and complicated, but from what I’ve been able to deduce, the members voted fourteen times and Townshend was among the five who held out. Several other members voted against Vinnie and then voted in favor of her and then voted against her again, but Townshend voted no every single time,” she explained.
A quick perusal of the pages confirmed her conclusions, for the vote counts were clearly marked. The viscount leaned over to read a scribbled note between tallies. “What’s this?”
Agatha tilted forward, brushing her shoulder against his, and although the contact was brief and slight, Addleson felt a shudder of awareness rush through him. The room was unpleasantly warm as he examined her for an indication that she had experienced the same flutter.
Her voice betrayed no sudden discomfort or awkwardness as she explained, “I assume the letters stand for Brill Method Improvised Elasticized Hose, which is the hose Miss Harlow invented. It improves upon the standard watering hose with its flexibility and can channel a steady stream of water without bursting.”
The viscount smiled. “
I am intimately acquainted with the steady stream of water the improved watering hose can provide.”
Next to him, Agatha gasped, then flushed brightly as the scene played in her mind as it played in his. She stared at him silently for a moment before quietly saying, “You must know how very sor—”
“No,” he said, shaking his head firmly, “don’t ruin it now by apologizing. I admire nothing more than a brash deed and a clever riposte, and you delivered both beautifully. Perverse as I am, I found the whole interlude to be genuinely entertaining. I know you didn’t believe me. You suspected a trap when I insisted on escorting you home, but I was sincere. I take pleasure in your company, Agatha.”
The words were out of Addleson’s mouth before they had even passed through his brain. He still wasn’t sure how it had happened. One moment he was dispassionately focusing on the problem at hand and the next he was speaking with passionate honesty.
His purpose had been so clear: to discuss the matter of Lady Agatha’s blackmail—blackmail!—with the same measured detachment with which she’d discussed it. In truth, he did not feel measured or detached. He felt ferociously angry on her behalf and had Mr. Luther Townshend had the misfortune to wander into the British Horticultural Society’s library anytime in the past fifteen minutes, he would have happily wrung his neck.
But he knew his anger did not serve a purpose. It would not help extricate Lady Agatha from her untenable position and it would not keep the discussion on an even keel. The evenness of the keel was of the utmost importance to him because he was keenly aware of the impropriety of the situation: closeted together in a quiet room, the midday sun filtering through the window and bathing her in its warm light. He knew how unseemly their situation was, but he didn’t want Agatha to be struck by its inappropriateness. Their business was too important to be hobbled by convention and missishness.
As it was, he was feeling missish enough for the both of them. How else to describe the self-consciousness he felt in her presence, his sense of awareness of her body next to his, so close all he had to do was lean forward to feel her shoulder against his again.
