by Lynn Messina
It would be an act of madness, of course, for it would not stop at the one kiss and the door to the drawing room was wide open. Plus, the maid—ah, yes, Ellen—was somewhere close by and was no doubt on the verge of coughing with delicate pointedness to remind him of her presence.
Sighing deeply, he leaned back in the settee and contented himself with swearing silent vengeance against the deputy director of Kew. As his fist was not in the air at the time, he satisfied himself that his word had been kept.
Agatha also leaned back, as if seeking shelter or protection in the depths of the oversize armchair. “As I was about to explain, ’twas not I, Lady Agatha, who was the target of Townshend’s wrath. He was furious with Mr. Clemmons. Apparently, the two of them have had a longstanding agreement, which he felt Townshend had betrayed.”
As Agatha relayed the story, Addleson found his anger replaced first by surprise, then by cynical amusement. What originally seemed like an unlikely contrivance—an esteemed member of an elite gardening society and a director of the most respected garden in the kingdom cribbing notes from an unknown American enthusiast—struck him in the end as the inevitable course taken by a corrupt gentleman who did not relish hard work. Townshend’s actions against Agatha and Miss Harlow spoke already of a weaselly nature, and his penchant for ruffled sleeves, a fashion embellishment as outdated as Lord Bolingbroke’s father’s wig, indicated a fondness for oppressive regimes. Agatha would dismiss his opinion as frivolous and trivial, but, in all sincerity, he would expect any sort of wickedness from a man whose commitment to repressive eighteenth-century ideals was unwavering.
“This has been going on for years?” he asked.
She bobbed her head sharply. “Four, to be precise. I do not know the actual number of articles that have been plagiarized, but it seemed like a significant number. Townshend knew the truth would likely be discovered once Petrie arrived in London, so he arranged for Clemmons to incapacitate him. He was supposed to put a dose of arsenic in his coffee so Petrie would be too sick to travel but somehow managed to dose his own cup instead. That is why he stayed behind and Petrie traveled alone.”
“Fascinating,” Addleson murmured as he tried to imagine the scene at the docks the morning of departure—the moment when the beleaguered and not very bright secretary realized he had not only failed to poison Petrie but had also succeeded in incapacitating himself. Oh, the futile rage at his encompassing ineptitude. Oh, the helplessness as that first wave of intestinal distress gurgled through his system. Did he even understand at first what was happening? Had he perhaps assumed it was a plate of ill-prepared eggs that caused his stomach complaint?
The viscount was far too well bred to laugh at the physical suffering of another, but he allowed himself a small smile. Sometimes, justice was self-administered.
Agatha did not view the events in the same analytical light, for she forcefully corrected his description. “It’s horrifying.”
“Let’s agree to compromise: horrifying and fascinating,” he offered diplomatically. “You say there are letters attesting to this history?”
“Townshend claims to have saved every letter Clemmons has sent him, starting with the missive introducing himself and suggesting the plan. He believes there’s enough detail in the recent one to have Clemmons sent immediately to the gallows,” she said. “I am not guilty of any crime, nor am I a foreigner to these shores, but Townshend’s argument for swift justice based on the evidence at hand was chilling. I think his assessment of the situation is accurate—if I were indeed Clemmons.”
With very little effort, Addleson called to mind the scene in the library and pictured Townshend towering over a tremulous Agatha, his eyes blazing with fury. Her description of the events, cool and matter-of-fact, painted a very different image and as much as he wanted to believe her account, he knew the whole experience must have been chilling.
For that alone—the sense of fear and helplessness she must have felt—he would seek revenge.
“But you are not Clemmons,” he reminded her.
“I am not Clemmons, so I have no cause to fear the letters,” she said. “We must find them.”
Addleson nodded, for, yes, they did need to locate those letters. Having evidence against Townshend would cancel out the evidence he had against Agatha. But would that eliminate the threat or simply delay it? Given Townshend’s record of infamy, the viscount rather thought it was the latter. In order to remove the threat entirely, they would have to come up with a more elaborate scheme than simply stealing the correspondence.
“He provided no details as to the probable location of the letters, but the obvious place to start the search is his residence,” she continued. “Other than slipping through the window of my studio—and I’ve only done that for the first time today—I have no experience secretly entering and exiting secured homes. I am, however, a quick learner and feel certain I can acquire the skill as I am practicing it. Shall we schedule the break-in for tomorrow night? We shall have to come up with a ruse to ensure Townshend is away from his home. Perhaps my father can unknowingly help us with that.”
The viscount smiled. How could he not when confronted with such undiluted confidence? “I don’t doubt for a moment you could become a champion thief overnight, but you should not invest in the tools for your new trade just yet. Your plan fails to take into account our more immediate problem.”
Agatha furrowed her brow, as if suspecting a trick. “The more immediate problem of distracting me with some other issue so you can break into Townshend’s house on your own?”
“I’m not that devious,” Addleson assured her, while privately wondering to what lengths he would go to keep her safe. Lying about a little housebreaking seemed like a minor offense to ensure her well-being. “I refer, of course, to Petrie’s presentation at the horticultural society six nights hence. Townshend can’t let him take the podium, for as soon as his friends and associates in the society hear the lecture, they will realize something is amiss. No, he must dispense with Petrie before then. You said Petrie is returning on Friday, correct? That gives Townshend only forty-eight hours to make his move.”
Agatha bolted upright in her chair. “Yes, of course. I tried to elicit from Townshend precisely what his plan was, but he thought I—that is, Clemmons—was trying to wrangle more money from him and refused to answer. Certainly he will do something to incapacitate Petrie before the lecture. The question is, will he use arsenic again or something more deadly?”
“Regardless, we cannot take the risk,” he said.
Slowly, she shook her head. “No, we cannot. We must gather our evidence immediately.”
“We must?” Addleson asked, thinking that they would not have to gather anything. If they played the scene correctly, Townshend would bring the evidence to them and do so obligingly in front of a team of Runners.
“Yes, then we can use the letters as leverage to make Townshend abandon his plan to hurt Petrie and stop his persecution of Miss Harlow and leave off harassing Mr. Holyroodhouse,” she said excitedly, before pausing and tilting her head thoughtfully. “My, that is quite an extensive list of sins for one packet of letters to ensure against.”
“I agree,” Addleson said. “In order for us to permanently neutralize the threat Townshend poses, we will need more ammunition. I have a plan that I think will work, but it requires you to dress as Mr. Clemmons again. How do you feel about that?”
She sighed dramatically. “The wig is a problem.”
He recalled the monstrosity she wore on her head and smiled. “Yes, it certainly is.”
“I shall have to search the attics for another,” she explained, “for the one I wore today is cinders in my fireplace grate.”
“I’m impressed with your fortitude. I would have tossed it out the window long before I returned home,” he said.
“Then you would have looked very funny climbing out of the hack with your long hair in pins,” she said, grinning. “But to the matter at hand: Other than the
inconvenience of the wig—and I mean the inconvenience of wearing it, not acquiring it, for the hairpiece was remarkable for its discomfort—I have no objection to once again adopting the identity of Mr. Clemmons. I assume Townshend and I will have another standoff. To what purpose?”
“As you said, Townshend’s threat against Clemmons, though chilling to hear, has no bearing on you because you are neither a criminal nor a foreigner. The real target of his threat is thousands of miles away in New York, which he does not know,” he said and watched with delight as the light of understanding dawned in her eyes. “So we will send a missive from Clemmons suggesting an exchange of evidence: his packet of letters for your packet of letters.”
Excited now by the scheme, Agatha jumped to her feet and started pacing the room. “Because I am a villain, too, and, as a villain, I am far too cynical to come to the home country of my co-conspirator without protection.”
“Exactly,” he said, rising to his feet as well.
“And, naturally,” she continued, clearly enjoying the game, “I’m far too hardened by my life of crime to simply hand over anything. No, first I must insist that we have a little chat about who did what and when and then press for details about how he plans to dispose of Petrie. While this is going on, we will…what?” She looked at Addleson thoughtfully as she ran through ideas. “Have someone on hand who can act in an official capacity. Who will it be? A magistrate? A Bow Street Runner?”
“A team of Bow Street Runners.”
With an appreciative nod, she stopped her pacing near the front window and smiled with approval. “That’s good. That’s really quite good. Newgate prison is a much better negotiating tool than the letters. I’m very impressed, Jonah.”
At the compliment, Addleson felt a flush of pleasure that was entirely out of proportion to the praise itself. Its cause was simple. In truth, it was far too simple for him to accept, for all it had taken was the sound of his name on her lips and the light of respect in her eyes. Just those two meager things and he had slipped from admiration to infatuation.
Having never made the journey before, he was an uncertain traveler and could not understand the odd frantic pressure in his chest. Was it panic? Could it be panic? Was it fear? Was it terror? Was it dread? Should he suddenly remember another engagement and come back in the morning when he had himself better under control?
The idea of leaving made sense, of giving himself time to figure out what he was feeling, and yet he remained rooted to the spot, for how could he leave her now, when he’d just discovered this remarkable feeling, this exultation, this irresistible desire to bask in her presence.
He was not going anywhere.
And yet it was unbearable to stay.
To hide the emotion, which was too intense for the drawing room, particularly one with an open door and a lady’s maid, he bowed politely and said thank you.
His voice sounded strange to him, as if there were a difference in vocal timber between infatuated Addleson and noninfatuated Addleson.
Lord Addlewit indeed, he thought in amusement and felt his heart start to steady. The respite was sweet but painfully short, for in five quick strides she was at his side and somehow taking his hands into her own.
“No,” she said, squeezing his fingers with sincere affection and gratitude, “thank you. You have been a true friend to me today, and I don’t know what I would have done without a friend.”
The viscount looked into her eyes, those fathomless black pools that somehow saw everything, and resolved never to look away even as he did just that. Gently, he extricated his hands from hers, for he had no other choice. Either he pulled himself away from her or pulled her toward him.
Using the vacuous tone that had earned him Mr. Holyroodhouse’s scorn, he said, “I know. You would have broken into Townshend’s apartment without delay, and given the limitations of Mr. Clemmons’s tailor, I can easily imagine the sartorial ignominy with which you would have committed the crime.” He affected a shudder. “Truly, I can’t decide which offense is worse.”
Agatha laughed, as he had intended, and took a step back. “You’re right about my actions, for I would have done something that impulsive. I take issue, however, with your other charge, for Lady Bolingbroke has a wonderfully austere black gown she wore when her mother died. Add a simple pearl necklace and I would have made an impeccably turned out housebreaker. Regardless, I owe you a debt of gratitude and I’m eager to settle up. How may I repay you?”
The correct response was on the tip of his tongue, but he could not bring himself to utter the suitably benign reply that courtesy required. No repayment was necessary, and yet there was so much he wanted from her—knowledge most of all, for she was like a dimly lit room and he longed to take a candle to every dark corner.
“Show me your studio,” he said.
Her eyes widened—with surprise, yes, for he could not imagine anyone had ever made the request before, but with trepidation as well. Her studio was not merely the private place where she worked, although she did toil there for hours in happy seclusion; it was also the secret heart of her.
Agatha was too clever not to know it.
“My studio?” she asked.
“Your studio,” he said, feeling an unexpected mix of surprise and trepidation himself. He had made the suggestion with his usual flippancy, and it was only now, when she seemed on the verge of refusing, that he realized how desperately he wanted her to agree. His need, he discovered with alarm, was twofold, for he didn’t just want to see her private place where she was most herself, he wanted her to trust him enough to let him see the private place where she was most herself. “Please show me your studio.”
She shook her head and, flustered, tried to answer. “Why would you… I really don’t think… I can’t just—” She broke off and looked him in the eyes, seemingly at a loss. “My mother would never approve.”
It did not take much imagination to conceive the horror with which Lady Bolingbroke would meet such a suggestion, and to some extent, he himself shared it. Nevertheless, he did something he had never before done in the whole of his twenty-nine-plus years: entreated a lady to behave indecorously. “You mentioned a window suitable for climbing through.”
Now she was shocked. His desire to see her studio was baffling but not entirely inexplicable. But this—desiring to see it so much he would climb through a window like a thief—was beyond anything fathomable.
For several seconds, Agatha stared at him aghast, then turned to her maid as if seeking assistance. Finding none, for Ellen was deeply engrossed in the stitching on the arm of her chair, she turned back to the viscount and examined him carefully for another few seconds before deciding to concede. “Very right,” she said with remarkable calm, “but you must not expect anything very grand. Despite my pleas for a light-filled atelier at the top of the house, my mother has consigned me to a gloomy closet near the kitchens. As you may guess, it’s a continual bone of contention between us. She contends too much sunlight will ruin my milky-white complexion, but in truth she hopes to discourage my painting.”
“I admire Lady Bolingbroke’s optimistic approach to achieving her goals, but that particular wish seems especially unlikely to come to pass,” he observed, wondering how she could speak of her mother’s trespasses with so little resentment. His own mother had done far less to thwart his happiness, and he resented her so much, he had barely seen her in the eight years since his father had died of consumption.
As fascinated as he was curious, Addleson put the question to her.
Agatha raised her left eyebrow and examined him with an air of amused cynicism. “Little resentment?” she asked mildly. “How would you describe Mr. Holyroodhouse, sir, if not as a seething heap of bitter indignation? I resent my mother so little I might irrevocably destroy her reputation as well as mine.”
Addleson conceded the point with a nod, for reckless behavior often accompanied indignant displeasure. “I stand corrected. You have taken resentment to an ent
irely new level.”
“Indeed, I have made a caricature of the emotion itself,” she said somewhat contemptuously. “What seems like calculation now, however, was unintentional then. In the beginning, I truly did not understand my motives in creating Mr. Holyroodhouse. I was several months into the ruse, and by the time I’d realized the truth, it was far too satisfying to desist. Three years later, I have no excuse. And what about you, Jonah?”
The viscount, who, though gratified to hear his name trip easily from her lips, knew he was not so facile as to let such a thing befuddle him. If he did not understand her question, it was because her question did not make sense. “You’ll have to elaborate, I’m afraid. What about me what, Agatha?”
“Your creation, Lord Addlewit,” she said simply.
“I rather thought Lord Addlewit was your creation,” he said with a teasing lilt to his voice. Despite his playful tone, her face remained serious, for she was too clever not to recognize the sally for the evasion it was. With a thoughtful frown, she silently watched him and waited for some version, any version, of the truth.
She would have to wait a very long time, Addleson thought, for he was not prepared to lay bare his soul. It was one thing for him to look at her secret heart and another thing entirely for her to look at his.
Having no cavalier reply and determined not to give a sincere one, he changed the subject and suggested a tavern called the Rusty Plinth for their assignation with Townshend.
“Clemmons would be new to London and would not have time to acquaint himself with its more respectable establishments. The Plinth is near the docks, so it’s likely he would have seen it when he first arrived, and it’s appropriately seedy. In addition, it’s large enough to house an entire regiment of Runners without feeling crowded and has a backroom for private dealings,” he explained, well aware that dodging the question was a craven response and perhaps the first act of cowardice he had ever indulged. “Townshend is unlikely to be familiar with it, which is another advantage.”
