by Lynn Messina
Agatha did not care about that. Truly she didn’t, for she had plans that did not include endearing herself to society. But as she’d sat in the quiet library of the horticultural society anxiously awaiting the viscount’s kiss, she’d found herself wishing for the ability to endear herself to at least one man.
“It is a very good thing you are still here, Mr. Clemmons,” the clerk said as he walked across the room, “for Lord Waldegrave has arrived to see you.”
Agatha rose to her feet and smiled tightly. Her new visitor seemed pleasant enough, with light brown hair and gray eyes, but she tensed her shoulders at the prospect of another impossible question. First the Earl of Moray had asked her about the absorbency rate of bloodroot, which Mr. Petrie had sworn his assistant would know, and then Mr. Abingdon had intruded with his query about jojoba. As the daughter of a longtime member of the British Horticultural Society, she knew enough to bluster her way past Mr. Berry—flattery, flattery, flattery—and to make plantish-sounding answers to questions about plants, but there was only so much nonsense she could spout before eyebrows were raised. She had barely squeaked by with a garbled explanation of how a concoction of lead and linseed oil increased the viscosity of Simmondsia chinensis.
While conversing with Mr. Petrie, she had noted that the American naturalist often referenced his secretary when confronted with a fact he did not know. It had never occurred to her, however, that Petrie had done the same with everyone to whom he spoke. If it had, she would have taken the time to come up with another ruse.
This realization highlighted the single biggest fault of her plan: its failure to consider the possibility of pressing horticultural questions. The oversight was understandable, for how could she have accounted for such a thing? They were horticultural questions. The fate of the world did not depend on the absorbency rate of bloodroot.
Six, for the record, was her answer: The absorbency rate of bloodroot was six. Moray, who was famous for his conciliatory nature, did not bat an eyelash and graciously agreed her number sounded right. In fact, he had seemed so satisfied, she had felt compelled to babble for a few extraneous minutes about root diameters and rhizome density.
“It is a pleasure to meet you,” Waldegrave said now, extending his hand.
Agatha had also not factored a manly grip into her decision to impersonate a gentleman, and as she stiffened her hand yet again in greeting, she hoped she pulled off a reasonable facsimile.
Waldegrave seemed content with her effort. “The pleasure is all mine, as Mr. Petrie’s conversation made it quite clear that you are a hugely busy man. I’m grateful you have the time to talk to me. Congratulations on your recovery. Mr. Petrie thought you would be confined to the bed for at least a month.”
Knowing how many responsibilities were heaped onto Mr. Clemmons’s shoulders and how endlessly Mr. Petrie could prattle on, Agatha was unable to decide whether the secretary’s sudden sickness was caused by exhaustion or a desire to spare himself an ocean journey in his employer’s company. She refused to believe he had simply eaten a rotten joint of mutton or digested a spoiled beef pasty.
“Leeches,” she said. “My illness ’twas nothing that a few judiciously placed leeches could not cure.”
“Which is fortunate for us, for the British Horticultural Society is delighted to export its high ideals to the New World and I’m happy to do whatever I can to help you in the establishment of a sister organization,” Mr. Berry said cheerfully, as he explained to Waldegrave her purpose in being there. He was at a loss to explain the viscount’s. “We are flattered by your attentions, as well, Lord Addleson, but I wonder at your interest in the institution’s private matters. The minutes to our meetings are not for the edification of the general populace. They are only for our members”—he darted an apologetic look at Waldegrave—“to peruse.”
“That is my fault, I’m afraid,” Agatha said quickly in her American baritone, which was getting easier to maintain the more she employed it. “I appealed to him for help, for I could not understand how a large and complex organization could be run with such outstanding, genial efficiency.”
Agatha saw Addleson suppress a grin before concurring enthusiastically with her comment. “Being unaccustomed to the ways of the English gentleman, Mr. Clemmons wondered if valuable information had been elided from the record, such as disagreements or disputes. I assured him we have too much respect for one another to get into minor spats over inconsequential things. I have to admit, however, that even for a British institution, your society seems unusually well run and convivial. You make it seem so effortless, I’m encouraged to start my own organization for the examination and cultivation of plants,” he said, as if seriously considering the idea. “I would first need to establish a color scheme for the uniforms, for I could not bear to have an ill-matching membership. I don’t know how you do it, Mr. Berry, letting everyone assemble in clothes they selected individually with no thought to the whole.” The viscount shuddered as if truly horrified by the disharmonious result. “Then I would need to design an insignia—perhaps a heraldic shield with a fleur-de-lis on it, or is that too obvious? Should I dig deeper to find a more obscure floral reference? Now that I consider the details, it actually seems like a tremendous amount of effort. I do not know how you do it, Mr. Berry, and I don’t just mean with your apparent color-blindness.”
Uncertain how to interpret Addleson’s comments, the clerk paused for a moment before deciding that the balance of his observations was positive and thanked him for his praise. If Mr. Berry had further concerns about the viscount’s perusal of the society’s documents, he did not voice them. Rather, he excused himself from the company, for the coordination of such a large effort did not happen on its own.
“Our Mr. Berry can be loquacious,” Waldegrave said as soon as the clerk had left. “He is very proud of the organization and tends to let his enthusiasm run way with him. With that in mind, I shall be brief. Mr. Petrie informed me of a remarkable species of orchidaceae that does not practice photosynthetic nutrition. He assured me you were well familiar with it. I am what my father describes as an orchid fiend and absolutely must know more.”
Agatha tried not to wince at the words photosynthetic nutrition, but it was difficult to contain her anxiety at the mention of a scientific concept of which she was unacquainted. She could try to decipher what the term meant—photo derived from the Greek word for “light”; nutrition had to do with making sure one received proper nourishment—but it was much easier to focus on the part of the question she knew something about: orchids. Like Waldegrave and many of the members of the society, her father was also an orchid fiend, and if there was one thing she had learned about orchids, it was that they were bizarre. Other flowers were fairly predictable, but the orchid came in every shape, size and color, taking on strange, inexplicable forms. Sketch a teacup with an overlarge handle and it could be an orchid. Throw the laces of your shoes on the floor and their haphazard arrangement could be an orchid. Eat half your supper and what remained on the plate could be an orchid. There were simply no rules governing the appearance and behavior of orchidaceae.
“Yes, yes, of course, the non-photosynthetic-nutrition orchid, a fascinating subject, so surprising and unexpected,” she said thoughtfully, stalling for time as she tried to come up with realistic-sounding characteristics. If it did not use light to make food, then perhaps it lived somewhere very dark. Where was such a place? “Underground! The orchid spends its entire life several feet below the surface in”—she thought of a place very far away—“Java. Because it doesn’t get sunlight, it’s a very pale color, almost white, and has no leaves. It is only a stem and it feeds off the roots of other plants nearby.” Now all she needed was a name. She recalled her Latin lessons. “It is called Orchidaceae opscurum.”
“Orchidaceae opscurum,” Waldegrave said, as if committing the name to memory. “Orchidaceae opscurum.”
“Orchidaceae opscurum,” she repeated firmly, more than slightly unsettled by the spark of excite
ment glowing in his eyes. He had warned her he was a fiend, and she had just given him a new object on which to focus his frenzy. She wouldn’t be surprised if he went straight to the docks to charter a ship for Java. At the very least, he would spend the rest of his life muttering Orchidaceae opscurum in his sleep.
When pressed for more details, Agatha made up additional traits, each one more outlandish than the last, until finally Waldegrave was satisfied he had exhausted Mr. Clemmons’s knowledge. Then he thanked the ersatz American profusely and left.
Addleson barely had time to compliment Agatha on her creation (“Inspired choice making it white, so it will coordinate nicely with all the other opscurum flowers buried beneath the earth”) before Mr. Berry returned in the company of a ginger-haired gentleman with overly groomed eyebrows and a tentative smile: Mr. Irby, who had been referred to Clemmons by Mr. Petrie and had a question about sand dunes.
Sand dunes!
It took all of Agatha’s self-control not to cry out in despair.
As mentally fatiguing as it was to have to bluff her way through another conversation (“Surprisingly, sand dunes are only 78 percent sand”), part of her was grateful for Irby’s company. The problem was not that she didn’t want to be alone with Addleson but, rather, how very much she did. Desiring a gentleman’s company was an unprecedented experience for Agatha and she worried about what it might mean. Clearly, she had feelings for him, otherwise she would not have anticipated his kiss with such eagerness.
His kiss, which her decidedly irrational brain had invented from whole cloth.
It had been a revelation to Lady Agatha Bolingbroke to discover she had a talent for fiction. Perhaps she could write stories to go with her illustrations.
The misunderstanding, she knew, sprang from her genuine admiration for the viscount, for he was unlike any other gentleman she had ever met. Even after he had listed the facts that led to his conclusion, she still could not grasp how he had deciphered the truth about Mr. Holyroodhouse. To anyone else, a callused finger and a knowledge of pigments would indicate a proclivity for painting, not a secret identity as a famous London caricaturist. The accusation had been so breathtaking, she made no attempt to refute it. Denial would not have served her purpose anyway, for he had easily seen through her feeble disguise as Mr. Clemmons. She did not know when exactly he had figured out the truth, but it was not long after he had entered the room.
What a horrifying moment that had been—watching him stroll into the library and having to greet him as Mr. Clemmons. Her heart had actually leaped into her throat as she swallowed a strangled cry. For God’s sake, what was he doing there?
It was his damned cousin Edward’s fault, with his idiotic question about Simmondsia chinensis. What matter was it to him how thick the oil was? Did he intend to create a magical elixir out of jojoba? Would he set up shop in Oxford Street and sell it to the ladies?
Mr. Abingdon could have no pressing reason to follow up with Mr. Clemmons except a desire to make an annoyance of himself, a task at which he had succeeded beautifully.
His cousin knew it, for he had thought the question as trivial as she did. His annoyance, however, quickly gave way to amusement as she struggled not to sound like a complete nodcock. She had seen the twinkle in his eye. The blasted man always had a twinkle in his eye, for the world was endlessly amusing to him.
As she was endlessly amusing. He took pleasure in her company indeed!
Agatha knew he would unmask her in a flutter of high theatrical drama and waited anxiously for the moment. When it came—after his cousin had departed—she had to acknowledge his innate decency. The frivolity with which he treated the world was not just an affectation, for his enjoyment of the trivial was sincere, but neither was it the whole story. Addleson was also capable of great kindness, as demonstrated by the care he took to alleviate her distress at Lord Paddleton’s ball.
It was this treatment of her that she had thought of as she tried to resist his offer to help. It had been elegantly posed and sincerely made, but the thought of admitting to a personal weakness was unbearable, for it wasn’t merely personal weakness she would be admitting to but an engulfing helplessness. Her ingenious plan had failed. Nothing in Townshend’s voting record indicated coercion, and the minutes leading up to the ballot described only sundry business matters and procedural motions.
She had no evidence. Without evidence, she had no direction. With no direction, she had no chance of overcoming Townshend’s threats.
All had seemed hopeless.
Then suddenly Addleson was there—Addleson, who appeared to divine the truth out of thin air, who looked at the same square everyone else did and saw a cube, whose perpetual amusement somehow offered comfort.
The viscount had made his plea to help and she’d accepted, for he was everything one sought in a co-conspirator: kind, honorable and astute. If her feelings for him were a little too warm—if, for example, they created nonexistent kisses out of whole cloth—then she would simply deal with the moments as they occurred and put them behind her. One way or another, her problem would be resolved soon enough, and then she would be free of Addleson’s company.
For now, however, she longed for it and dreaded it in equal measure.
As Agatha explained how species colonized sand dunes—a description based entirely on her understanding of how the upstairs maid organized the linen closet—she darted a look at Addleson, expecting to see that familiar twinkle. Instead, her eyes met the top of his head, for his nose was buried deep in the minutes.
She felt a stab of disappointment that he wasn’t appreciating her clever dodge, which was immediately followed by a burst of disgust, for she was not a jester performing for the king and had to stop acting like one.
“In the end, it all comes down to organization,” Agatha said, “for no matter how large and boundless an area is, you never seem to have enough space.”
“Yes, of course, that’s it!” Mr. Irby said enthusiastically, as if something very difficult and complex had finally been explained in simple enough terms for him to understand. Agatha rather thought it was the opposite. “You are a pleasure to talk to, Mr. Clemmons, and I’m very grateful for your imparted wisdom. Do say you will dine at my town house before you leave.”
Agatha, who could imagine nothing more horrible than trying to maintain her disguise through an entire meal, nodded agreeably. “I shall consult with Mr. Petrie about my schedule and send a note.”
Irby beamed. “Very good, very good. I understand from Mr. Berry that you are reading our minutes to discover the secrets to our successful society and that the viscount is here to provide you with guidance. As a member, I am a treasure trove of knowledge, so please do not hesitate to contact me if you need further information. Perhaps I should stay to provide firsthand experience.”
“Another generous offer. I thank you again,” Agatha said, wondering if she could slip her arm around the loiterer to direct him to the door. As a woman, such a gesture would be forbidden, but it seemed appropriate among the casual fraternity of men. Had not Addleson treated his cousin thus when coercing Abingdon to depart quickly? “But I cannot agree. I’m sure you have more important matters to attend to and I could not live with myself if I kept you from them for my own selfish reasons. Now toddle off before I am entirely debilitated by a guilty conscience.”
Unable to resist such a pointed plea, Irby thanked Clemmons again for his masterful discussion of a difficult topic, promised to look out for the missive about dinner and conceded that, yes, he did have an important business matter concerning a recent investment in a gold mine to which to attend.
When the door finally closed behind him, Agatha sighed deeply, threw herself in a chair and laid her head on the table. At Addleson’s chuckle, which was immediate in coming, she opened one eye, and meeting his gaze, saw the delighted twinkle.
Her heart hitched.
You are not his jester, she reminded herself forcefully.
She would never su
bmit to such humiliating work, but she could understand the appeal of the job.
“I must salute you, Lady Agatha,” Addleson announced, “on another concise and brilliant explanation of a natural phenomenon. I don’t know how you arrived at your exact composition of the sand dune, but your calculation of two percent bird dung seems entirely accurate to me.”
Agatha lifted her head and opened her other eye. “I worry about the existence of Mr. Irby’s gold mine if he did not realize my answer was 100 percent bird dung.”
Addleson chuckled appreciatively again, then said in a more businesslike tone, “Before your father comes strolling in here to ask about the average temperature of native grasses in Abyssinia, let’s discuss our situation, for even if he does not recognize his daughter, he is sure to recognize his wig.”
Now Agatha laughed. “Actually, the wig belonged to my grandfather, so it’s unlikely he would recognize it. Your point, however, is well taken. My plan to impersonate Mr. Petrie’s absent assistant was hastily conceived, but even if I had had a month to think about it, I would never have imagined word of my presence spreading so quickly. No doubt the news has already reached Mr. Petrie in Bath.”
“All plans have unforeseeable complications,” the viscount said with a shrug of his pair of very fine shoulders. “Now, while you were trying to distract me with your implausible explanation of how pioneer species colonize, I reviewed all the minutes from the last year.”
Aware they had no time to waste, Agatha did not bother to deny the allegation that she had been trying to distract him. Instead, she chastised herself for noticing the quality of his shoulders and asked if he had learned anything useful.
“I’m not really sure,” he said, sliding the book toward her and flipping to the middle. “On the face of it, no, for there isn’t any specific information we can use against Townshend. As you know, the minutes are mostly devoted to procedural matters. It tells us what issues were voted on and how each member voted, who attended each meeting, who added agenda items for each meeting. Go back twelve months and you will see that many of the agenda items were added by Mr. Berry. There are exceptions, of course, such as when your father proposed inviting Mr. Petrie to speak or Sir Charles suggested an increase in dues. Six months ago, Townshend added an agenda item, which he had not done once in the six months preceding. Then, over the next two months, he added four more items and each time it concerned Mr. Petrie’s visit.”
