by Lynn Messina
Lucky her.
These melancholy thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of Townshend, who marched into the room with great thundering strides and slammed the door shut behind him with an unsettling crack. “You are either foolish or stupid, Clemmons, to challenge me like this,” he announced, removing his riding gloves. “Quite possibly both. Now hand over those letters immediately and I will ensure that an English noose will not meet your neck through my contrivance.”
Agatha knew she should not have been surprised by Townshend’s aggressive stance, but she had assumed his attitude would be a little more conciliatory in light of the threat Clemmons posed. She had expected a show of civility, if not a sincere display.
Speaking slowly and calmly to ensure her accent stayed consistently American and the pitch of her voice remained unswervingly male, she said, “I proposed a trade. My letters for yours.”
“A trade!” Townshend scoffed. “I would be a fool to think I could trust a scoundrel like you.”
“Not at all, for I am prepared to trust a scoundrel like you,” she said.
Townshend did not like that. Oh, he did not like that at all, being compared to a corrupt American lackey who had sold out his master. His eyes turned flinty, and he took one threatening step toward her. Agatha decided to use his anger against him, for if they were not going to have a polite conversation about past misdeeds and current crimes, then they might as well have a churlish standoff.
“We both know the greater risk is mine, for you are more of a scoundrel than I could ever be,” she said with an insufferable air of moral superiority. “’Twas you who came up with the plan to poison Petrie and ’twas you who sent me the arsenic to do it. You know it and I know it and in case you forget it, I have the letters to prove it.”
Townshend growled and took another step closer. “My plan was foolproof: just a few grains of arsenic in Petrie’s coffee and he would have been out of commission for weeks. But you…you”—how scathingly he said it—“are a villain and a cheat, taking my money for a service not rendered and then coming all the way to London to extort more gold from me. Hand me my letters.”
His eyes were bulging now and the tip of his nose was bright red, and although Agatha thought he looked like a demon out of child’s fairy story, she took a step closer to him.
“I will own my deadly sin, sir,” she said tauntingly. “I am a greedy man and don’t deny that I’ve enjoyed spending your money in London while laughing at you behind your back. But I am not a murderer. I would never harm another human being for personal gain, and we both know that’s not true of you. What will you do to Petrie this time? More arsenic? Perhaps hemlock? Maybe he will fall in front of a carriage with a little help from you?”
Townshend laughed scornfully. “You conniving hypocrite. How dare you! Your failure to poison Petrie wasn’t an act of conscience but of incompetence. You have no more scruples than I when it comes to dropping poison into an associate’s cup. You were merely incapable of accomplishing the deed without tainting your own drink by mistake. I assure you, when I poison Petrie myself, I won’t demonstrate such ineptness. Now, for the last time, hand me my letters.”
Agatha listened with relief to his confession. He had announced in front of Addleson and her and three Bow Street Runners that he intended to harm the visiting American. There was no way he could take it back. Now all she had to do was get Clemmons’s letters and she would be free from his manipulations.
“I proposed a trade,” she said again, “my letters for yours.”
“No, I do not like that proposal,” Townshend said, his tone surprisingly calm after the recent wave of anger. Then he reached into his coat, extracted a pistol and aimed it with cool steadiness at the figure he thought was Mr. Clemmons. “Nope, I don’t like that at all. What I like is for you to hand me my letters and for you to scurry all the way back to New York like the filthy piece of vermin you are.”
Agatha noticed the design first—the deep rich wood that might have been walnut, the silver fittings, the intricate inlay of silver wire—and felt the bite of fear in her throat second. She had focused on the aesthetics because the act itself had been too improbable for her mind to comprehend at once: the deputy director of Kew Gardens pulling a gun in the backroom of a seedy tavern. It was like a caricature of a caricature of a villain.
Panicking was bad, she told herself as her heart beat wildly out of control and her left hand began to tremble. Panic would cloud her thinking and she needed to keep a clear head, as the situation was not what either she or Townshend had been counting on. He had come to the tavern to extract, at gunpoint if necessary, a packet of letters from a foreign nonentity with no friends and a record of past criminal deeds. He had not come to point a pistol at Lord Bolingbroke’s daughter.
What would Townshend do when he discovered the truth?
Realizing how easily the situation could spiral out of control, she took a deep breath and clenched her fist. The last thing she wanted was for Addleson to dive heroically into the fray, for in attempting to save her life, he could very likely lose his own. The thought of the viscount’s death, of his dying tragically and valiantly and stupidly in the backroom of the seedy little tavern on the outskirts of the wharf, caused her heart to beat so violently, she could barely breathe.
A faint now would be fatal, she thought, as she willed herself to calm down. She had to get a grip on her fear before it undid her entirely.
You need to think clearly.
Yes, clearly. First, she needed a plan.
“Let’s not be hasty,” she said as much to herself as to Townshend. Then she remembered that Addleson and the Runners could hear her as well. “Let’s all take a moment and think about our options before someone acts foolishly. Pointing a gun at me is not necessary. I’m sure we can come to an agreement.”
Although she spoke with confidence, Agatha wasn’t so sure they could arrive at an agreement, for as soon as she gave Townshend the packet, he would know he had been a dupe—then he would be an angry dupe with a gun. Before that moment, before the truth clicked in his brain, she and Addleson needed to act.
“The time for agreements is passed,” Townshend said with a firm shake of his head. Then he took one step and another step toward her until the firearm was mere inches from her head. One sudden movement and a bullet would be lodged in her brain. “If you do not give me the letters, I will be forced to settle on another course. Your choice of meeting places was particularly unwise, for we are near the Thames and there are a dozen men in the room next to ours who would happily toss your corpse into it for a few guineas.”
Sweat slid down Agatha’s back as she stared at the barrel of the gun, so close to her eyes she could almost not see it. Its proximity to her head unnerved her so much, her left arm began to shake again. She clenched her fingers as tightly as she could, driving her nails into her palm, and still her fist quivered. Slowly, she raised her other hand and narrated her actions with soothing calmness, for she did not want to startle him with unexpected movements. “I find your argument very persuasive. I will hand you the letters and you will remove that gun from where it is aimed between my eyes. First, I will withdraw the letters from where they are on my person, then I will tell you when it is safe for you to take them.”
Was that clear? Did Addleson understand what she was trying to tell him?
Her tone still calm, her voice somehow still sounding like a proper American male, she said, “I am lifting my coat and raising my arm to pull the letters out from my pocket. Now I am pulling them from my pocket.” Her fingers clenched around the packet as she took a deep breath. This was it. The maneuver would come down to a mere fraction of a second. Hand the letters, yell, “Now!” at the top of her lungs; drop to the floor; and hope for the best. It was a risky plan but the only one she had.
Before she could implement it, before she could even formulate the next syllable, Townshend grabbed the neat stack from her hand and grinned evilly at her, his gun traine
d on her forehead with such steadfastness, she feared he meant to kill her anyway. Then, as fast as it had formed, the smile turned to confusion as the image of his own thin, emaciated face stared back at him.
Now, her mind screamed. Now.
But she didn’t move quickly enough, for it was already there in his face, the flash of understanding, the bolt of enlightenment, and she saw the moment his confusion solidified into hatred and the moment he decided he didn’t care that she was Lord Bolingbroke’s daughter or that pulling the trigger meant the fulfillment of the horrifying future he was staring at and she saw the moment his finger twitched on the trigger.
And then the door was opening and Vinnie Harlow was striding into the room and she was marching toward Agatha and she was slapping her in the face and she was saying, “You are vile, Mr. Holyroodhouse.” And then into the confusion and chaos—Townshend’s understanding no more keen than Agatha’s—Addleson flew from behind the curtain, his body soaring through the air as he unleashed an inhuman growl, and landed on Townshend with a raised fist.
The gun discharged.
Agatha’s eyes searched frantically for the spreading splotch of blood, for the telltale red that would reveal who had been hit. But she saw none, certainly not on Addleson, who was vigorously pounding his fist into Townshend’s face, and certainly not on herself, for she didn’t feel any pain. She looked at Vinnie, whose face was ashen, saw Emma behind her and suddenly felt the hard floor of the backroom as the Duchess of Trent shoved her to the side just a second before a chandelier crashed a few inches from her head.
Uncomprehending, Agatha stared up at the Harlow Hoyden, who, as calm and composed as ever, explained that the bullet had frayed the rope that suspended the candles.
It made perfect sense, but Agatha was still unable to understand it. She stayed where she was, lying on the hard floor of the tavern, watching as the Duke of Trent removed Addleson from Townshend’s chest and the Marquess of Huntly wrapped his arms about Vinnie and the Runners dragged Townshend to his feet and Emma called for the barkeep to clean up the broken glass.
Then suddenly Addleson was at her side, helping her sit up with excessive tenderness and examining every inch of her for evidence of injury. Finding none, he gathered her roughly into his arms and hugged her with such crushing force he risked causing the injury he had been unable to locate. He sighed deeply, as if expelling all the air in his lungs, slowly loosened his hold and pulled back until he was staring into her eyes. Agatha stared back, marveling at how his eyes could look so wild when his touch was so gentle, and her head, as if by its own volition, leaned toward his and her eyes fluttered closed as she anticipated the feel of his lips….
“My chandelier!” screeched a shrill voice, calling Agatha to her senses. She jerked away from Addleson and leaped to her feet as a short man with an apron kneeled beside the shattered fixture.
“Who broke it?” he asked accusingly, not at all concerned by other recent events, including the cause of the gunshot that led to the destruction of the lighting fixture. “One of yez broke it. Who did it?”
Addleson stepped forward and announced he would assume responsibility for all damages as well as compensate for any inconvenience endured. The tavern owner’s tragic demeanor was immediately supplanted by a look of calculation.
“Me mum picked out that chandelier, milord,” he said. “She loved it. She’s gone now, me mum, died last spring. That chandelier was all I ’ad to remember ’er.”
“No doubt your suffering is great,” Emma said with a cynical smile, leading the little man to the door, “but I’m confident you and the viscount will arrive at a sum sufficient to make the pain bearable. Now do excuse us, my good man, for we have a lot of business to settle first.”
After she pushed the tavern owner gently out of the room and shut the door firmly in his face, Emma said, “Well, this is quite a morass. Now where should we start sorting it out? Truthfully, I cannot decide between Townshend and Lady Agatha.” She looked at her sister, whose color had started to return. “Vinnie, what do you suggest?”
Agatha startled at the mention of her name, for she had thought herself still adequately disguised, and realized now that her wig had come off in the struggle, exposing her secret to the person from whom she most wanted to keep it hidden.
Vinnie turned seething eyes from Townsend to Agatha, then back to Townshend, who was struggling to free himself from the Runner’s grasp, and dipped her head. “I defer to you, Emma.”
Townshend, however, did not appreciate any deference that was not directly aimed at him and immediately protested that he had been tricked by a well-organized conspiracy determined to ruin him and that everyone in the room would suffer for the injustice inflicted on him. With his customary elegance, Addleson withdrew a handkerchief from his pocket, crumpled it into a ball and stuffed it into Townshend’s mouth to cut the clamor off at the source. Then he drew the villain to the love seat, bound his hands and feet with what remained of the chandelier cord and asked the Runners to wait in the taproom.
“I will call you when we are ready for further action,” he explained as he shut the door firmly. Then he turned and addressed the occupants of the room. “If no one else is prepared to offer a preference, I’m most curious about the source of Mr. Townshend’s great hatred of Miss Harlow. He has been set on her destruction with an obsessive devotion that Lady Agatha and I have found puzzling. He contacted Agatha, vis-à-vis Mr. Holyroodhouse, with the accusation against Miss Harlow, and Agatha, not truly understanding how eloquent an artist she is or how enthusiastically the ton laps up any hint of iniquity, drew the caricature with which we are all familiar.”
Listening to Addleson make excuses for her, Agatha felt the last remnants of shock, fear and confusion fall away. All those years of mercilessly mocking the beau monde for its foibles were finally coming home to roost, and she would not dodge the consequences. She had thought herself motivated by resentment of her parents alone, had believed her crusade to be wholly personal, but now she understood—finally—that her impulse to ridicule the ton was actually a desire to punish it for denying her the freedom to be herself.
“When Townshend approached Agatha about a follow-up drawing,” Addleson continued, “she resolutely turned him down and—”
Agatha could not listen to a single word more. She stiffened her shoulders, walked over to Emma and looked her squarely in the face. “I have wronged you,” she said, her hand trembling with greater vigor now than when Townshend had held a gun to her head. “I have wronged you because you possess the strength I lack to flaunt society’s expectations. I have punished you for having the bravery to be exactly who you are. You are foolish and wrongheaded and reckless to the point of stupidity, but you fearlessly live your life, accepting the consequences, and rather than respect that, I resented it because I could not act with the same courage. Unable to bring myself to reject society entirely, I have worked tirelessly to make society reject me.”
Next she turned to Vinnie. “When you decided to seek membership in the British Horticultural Society, I tarred you with the same brush because with that single act of boldness you became another hoyden and yet another rebuke of my cowardice. And then,” she continued, ruthlessly swallowing the knot that rose in her throat, for she would not let herself unravel until she had said it all. “And then, when I allowed myself to behave impetuously for the first and only time in my life, when I gave myself the freedom to act without caring what society thought, you laughed at me. All of you laughed at me, and I took the shame of that ridicule and put it into the drawing. What Addleson said is correct. I did not realize how clearly the illustration leveled the accusation. I honestly thought it was a code to be deciphered by its subject alone. I was horrified when I discovered the truth. But that is neither here nor there, for it does nothing to exonerate my guilt and I seek no exoneration. Here is what matters: This afternoon, Lord Addleson and I have gathered enough evidence against Mr. Townshend to ensure his silence forever
. He will never bother you again.” Now she looked away from Vinnie, for she had only so much nerve. “I hope this can be some compensation for the pain I have caused you.”
“It is little compensation,” Emma announced in a hard voice that did not at all surprise Agatha. The woman whom she had described as foolish and wrongheaded and reckless would not forgive easily. “Because we already had Mr. Townshend dead to rights on charges of treason for threatening to reveal secret government information. On one word from me, the home secretary would toss him into Newgate and throw away the key.”
The warmth rose so swiftly in Agatha’s face, she thought she might faint from the heat. The one mitigating factor she had to offer and it had no value at all. She had not been seeking exoneration, no, but an offer of penance would not have been inappropriate.
“I see,” she said softly, her eyes focused on a candle that had snapped in two during the fall. “Of course.”
“Or, rather, that’s what I wanted Mr. Townshend to believe,” Emma said with a brief glance at the offender, whose face was red with his struggles to free himself, “but clearly he was not the least bit intimidated by my threats, for almost immediately after I issued them he recruited you in his plan for petty revenge. This time, the noose is securely in place and for that I am genuinely grateful.”
Agatha’s eyes flew to meet hers.
“I would not forgive you,” Emma added, “for it seems to me the scale still tips out of your favor, but Vinnie will. In fact, she already has because she is too practical to nurse a grudge, and being too practical to nurse a grudge, she will nag me about the impracticality of my nursing a grudge. As I wish to avoid many unpleasant years of determined nagging, I am prepared to forgive you now. But you must comprehend that I do it only out of concern for myself, not for you.”
Agatha had not expected kindness from the Harlow Hoyden, only lifelong animosity, and being forgiven so quickly and so graciously made her dizzy with relief. She had to close her eyes to regain her balance, and when she opened them a moment later, she felt herself smiling. “Thank you. After all the harm I’ve done Miss Harlow, I would hate to have added the burden of years of nagging.”
