The Bolingbroke Chit: A Regency Romance Page 10

  As nobody had ever described Lady Agony as delightful, not even her father, who was genuinely fond of her, she had to assume he was mocking her again. His tone suggested otherwise, for it lacked the sardonic edge that usually infused his words, but his eyes—those baffling, puzzling, confusing eyes that she had found impossible to depict last night—remained amused and detached. For the sake of her art, she stared into his eyes, determined to memorize the expression so she could re-create it on canvas. She didn’t often choose random members of the ton as subjects for her portraits, but Viscount Addleson’s elusive nature offered compelling challenges.

  But even as she resolved to render the gentleman in oils, she decided she did not like him. There was nothing novel in this conclusion, as she disliked a great number of individuals, starting with but not limited to pompous American naturalists, but she usually liked people in whose company she had passed a pleasant interval. Addleson, with his instruction on how to word a swallow-tail-coat compliment to his valet, had amused her. More than that, he had cajoled her into frivolity, an accomplishment so rare she valued it a great deal higher than sartorial perfection.

  The pleasantness of the interval was undermined, however, by her inability to comprehend his true nature. His character seemed to shift from moment to moment, and while this elusiveness made him an interesting subject, it made him an unappealing companion. It was one thing to laugh at one’s French valet, for who had not been amused by the capricious ways of their servants, but it was another thing entirely to laugh at one’s peers.

  Agatha realized that a charge of hypocrisy could be laid at her feet, for did she not regularly laugh at her peers in Mr. Holyroodhouse’s cartoons? But there was a difference, and although she couldn’t quite put her finger on the exact nature of the disparity, she knew it had something to do with the detachment of her work. Her drawings were not personal attacks against people; she was merely rendering for general consumption an idea that already existed in society. She did not pluck the Marquess of Huntly with her caricature; he had performed that service himself when he nominated Miss Harlow for admittance to his club.

  Everyone must be accountable for his decisions, she thought, as she continued to stare into the viscount’s eyes.

  And then she realized: She was still staring into the viscount’s eyes! Or must the activity, which had gone on for seconds or—gasp!—minutes, now be described as gazing deeply?

  Agatha could not think of anything more horrifying and abruptly looked away to give the door handle her full attention. It was so unlike her to woolgather!

  “Thank you, my lord,” she said, trying to recall the last thing he had said. Something about appreciating her condescension. Yes, of course. “And I appreciate your discretion in remaining here.” Even if he hadn’t been sodden, she would have insisted on seeing herself to the door, for anything else would have appeared amiable. “If you will excuse me, I’m sure my mother is wondering where I am. Thank you and good day.”

  Unable to risk further contact, she kept her eyes trained down but even so, she knew his own eyes were amused. Everything amused him, and as she exited the carriage she reaffirmed her dislike of him. How disagreeable to be around someone who was entertained all the time.

  After he helped her down, he tipped his hat and said with misleading solemnity, “Good day to you, Lady Agatha.”

  Addleson immediately retook his seat in the carriage, but his horses did not pull away, and although she knew herself to be provoked, she did not turn around as she walked to the front door. She was so uninterested in his movements, she didn’t even peer through the peephole.

  After handing her pelisse to Gregson, she found her mother in the drawing room flipping through a fashion magazine. Lady Bolingbroke looked up with a pleasant smile. “Ah, there you are, Aggie. I do wish you wouldn’t spend the entire morning painting in your dreary studio, as social calls are much more conducive to one’s health and happiness.”

  “I was out paying a social call,” she said for the simple delight of watching her mother stare at her in amazement. Given that she usually spent whole days painting in her dreary studio, she wasn’t at all taken aback by her mother’s reaction. Amused, she sat down on the settee and poured herself a cup of tepid tea. “I visited Miss Harlow.”

  “You visited the duchess?” Lady Bolingbroke asked, agog. “You went to her house and chatted with her?”

  “Well, I chatted with her grace only briefly, but I did have a nice coze with Miss Harlow,” she explained, recalling with surprise how much she’d enjoyed her one-on-one with the horticulturalist. In truth, she had expected the experience to be long and tedious, but it had been quite pleasant. Sadly, and perhaps inevitably, the visit had ended on a sour note, what with her dousing the Duke of Trent’s guest, and she rather thought Miss Harlow had compounded Agatha’s faux pas by laughing uncontrollably. As her hostess, Vinnie should have smoothed over the awkward moment, not exacerbated it.

  Recalling the incident again, Agatha felt the insult keenly.

  Still trying to understand her daughter’s unprecedented sociability, her ladyship smiled hesitantly and dropped the magazine on the cushion next to her. “Did you? Did you really?” she asked suspiciously. When Agatha stared blankly at her, she tittered and shook her head. “I am so pleased. To be honest, I had a feeling an unconventional woman like Miss Harlow would have a positive effect on you. I know you think I have little patience or respect for your art, but I do understand how important it is to you. That is why I thought Miss Harlow would be such a good example. She has her inexplicable interest in drainage pipes and yet still enjoys social functions. It is possible to do both, Aggie dear.”

  “Of course, Mama,” she said obligingly, wondering if she had unintentionally opened herself up to an extended lecture.

  “She is so successful at striking a balance between her arcane interests and society that she has managed to nab not one fiancé but two,” Lady Bolingbroke added, her tone bright with admiration. “You will admit, it’s an impressive accomplishment, particularly when one is swathed in the unflattering colors of mourning.”

  Agatha, whose interest in the conversation had been perfunctory, suddenly sat up in her chair. Her mother’s observation had been remarkably accurate: It was unusual for a woman in widow’s weeds to attach another suitor, for she was constrained not just by her own grief but also by the ugliness of her garments and the strictures of society. No gentleman wooed a lady in mourning.

  If Huntly could not have wooed Miss Harlow while she was in mourning for Sir Waldo, perhaps he had wooed her before she’d entered it. Could she have won over a new parti while still attached to the old? She would certainly not be the first or the last woman to treat a beau so cavalierly. But what cause would she have to kill the poor man? Surely, it was better to be known as a jilt than a murderess.

  But Miss Harlow wasn’t known as a murderess.

  Could her motives be that monstrous? Agatha wondered.

  “Huntly is, as you know, an exceptional catch. Her first fiancé, though an agreeable enough fellow, was only a baronet. Huntly is a marquess, which is a vast improvement, if,” her mother hastened to add, “one thought of marriage in terms of social advancement. I assure you, I do not. Your father and I are not particular in our requirements for your husband, merely that he be from a family of good standing and have a comfortable income. We do not require a title, though if you feel that is the only way you may be happy, we will support you in every possible way.”

  Agatha had no doubt of her parents’ support. She had been assured of it almost weekly from the moment of her come out. To her mother’s credit, that good lady had remained remarkably consistent in her requisites for a son-in-law. Even with her increasing desperation, she had never swayed in her insistence on an established family. Agatha rather thought her mother would be happy with a well-educated fishmonger by now.

  “I had not heard of Miss Harlow’s engagement,” Agatha said, wondering if it could be
true. As her mother observed, baronet to marquess was an impressive promotion. Was it impressive enough to kill for?

  Despite her attempt to create a complete picture, the pieces of the puzzle simply did not fit, for it was impossible to imagine Lavinia Harlow as a coldhearted killer. She recalled her delight in showing off her improvised device for watering flowers—a hose made of an expandable leather that wouldn’t burst under pressure. Agatha could not imagine a more frivolous yet more functional invention.

  “Yes, she and Huntly are to be married by special license any day now. Moray mentioned it to me last night. I’m not at all surprised. In truth, I don’t think anyone is, for obviously Huntly put her name up for your father’s club in an attempt to win her good opinion. An unconventional manner in which to woo a young lady, to be sure, but I would never question the choices of others,” she explained with an air of complaisance. “From the very beginning, in fact, I had no issue with her joining the society. Your father was entirely appalled at the notion of a female invading the inner sanctum, but I believed it was a fair trade for the duchess’s support. We have one of the oldest names in all of England, but it never hurts to be seen in the company of a duchess.”

  Although Agatha found herself startled to discover why the hoydenish young duchess had suddenly shown an interest in her, she knew she should not be. She herself had speculated as to by what method her mother had wrangled an invitation to the theater, for she had known the event could not have occurred on its own.

  Forewarned, she could hardly pretend to have her feelings hurt now.

  “Oh?” Agatha said vaguely, hoping to elicit more information from her mother. It would never do to show too much interest, for Lady Bolingbroke might begin to wonder if she had said something wrong.

  “Well, you’re an intimate of theirs now, so you know how close the duchess and her sister are. Naturally, the duchess wanted to do whatever she could to help ensure her sister’s acceptance, so she offered to lend us her support in exchange for your father’s vote. Your father was initially put off by the proposal, for he thought a tit-for-tat arrangement quite vulgar, but I pointed out how we make such exchanges all the time—shillings for candlesticks, for example—and the duchess increased her offer to two social events. Your father felt compelled to agree.”

  Agatha didn’t know which was more appalling: that her mother equated her with candlesticks or that she haggled over her price.

  It made no difference to her, of course, why the Harlow sisters had taken her under their wing and she certainly had not expected the arrangement to last. She herself was hardly free of blame, for she had used friendliness as a ruse to gather information. Her visit with Vinnie had been fairly conclusive, but she needed to reevaluate the situation in light of this new evidence. Her deductions were based on the assumption that the Harlow girl was incapable of premeditation. Now that she knew she had ruthlessly traded votes for favors—and that she had raised the ranking of her husband-to-be—she couldn’t be as confident.

  The only way to know for sure would be to draw a caricature and wait for her reaction. An innocent woman would laugh; a guilty one would blanch.

  Agatha knew her thinking could be called simplistic, for society demanded that all its members be able to play a part. But the accusation of murder was so startling, so horrible and shocking, she imagined few women would be able to hide their true response. An experienced society matron would no doubt have the restraint to keep her smile firmly in place but not an unsophisticated young lady such as Miss Harlow.

  Eager to begin, Agatha put down her cup of tea and announced she had some work to do. Lady Bolingbroke, cringing as always at the categorization of her daughter’s hobby as work, refused to let her daughter leave before lecturing her on the proper method for paying social calls. “You take the carriage, my dear. How you arrive is as important as when you arrive. And showing up without a lady’s maid is course and vulgar. I trust you will comply with these rules in the future.”

  Given the unlikelihood of future social calls, Agatha easily acquiesced to her mother’s requests and left the dear lady to peruse her fashion magazine. In her studio, she sketched a dressing room scene—decorative screen, mirror, table, clothes tossed over the back of a chair—and placed a round figure in the center who more or less met an approximate description of Sir Waldo Windbourne. Positioning him sideways, she dressed him in pantaloons, Hessians and a pristine white linen. She wrapped a whalebone corset over his shirt and inserted a young lady to tighten it. The caption read: “There, that should do it.”

  As a general idea, she thought it had merit, for the concept worked on two levels. On the face of it, it was merely a funny representation of male vanity. The lady helping him into the corset did not have to be Miss Lavinia Harlow. Yes, she had her smooth blond hair, but Agatha had intentionally kept her outfit plain so the woman could easily be taken for a servant. Only those who had their suspicions—Agatha, her anonymous source and the villainess herself—would notice anything amiss.

  Indeed, she had little doubt that the thing most people would notice was the lack of ingenuity on the part of Mr. Holyroodhouse. As a target, Sir Waldo should be well beneath the renowned satirist’s notice, for the deceased gentleman had been the easily mocked embodiment of male vanity long before the caricaturist took notice of him. Agatha’s depiction added nothing to the conversation.

  The drawing needed to be refined. She would heighten the color on Sir Waldo’s face, perhaps tint it a bright shade of purple to reflect his struggle for breath, and add a few droplets of sweat to his temples. Miss Harlow’s face also required adjusting. She had to sharpen her expression to one of satisfaction. That, too, would work on two levels. To the unaware, her satisfied look could stem from the simple pleasure of having achieved a difficult goal, for what woman did not know the challenge of lacing a corset.

  With her concept established, Agatha began to work on the drawing in earnest, adding color and texture and the tiny details that gave movement to a face. She had to stop a few hours later when her mother sent Ellen to change her for Lady Kennington’s rout. As always, she resented the intrusion, but in this instance she admitted it was timely. By all accounts, she was finished with the illustration and was making only minor changes. Something about the image did not sit right to her, for no matter how closely and carefully she examined it, she did not feel the usual fissure of excitement that accompanied the completion of a work.

  Something was most definitely off.

  “It seems done to me, my lady,” Ellen said when her opinion was sought. “I think it’s as good as anything you’ve ever done. And really funny, too. Imagine a man that size trying to squeeze into such a tiny corset! I’m surprised he hasn’t suffocated himself.”

  Her maid’s comments should have put Agatha’s mind at ease, for she had said exactly what any artist hoped to hear. “But does it look like the lady is trying to suffocate him?”

  “Lawks, no, milady!” Ellen said with a surprised lift of her head. “She’s just helping him. Putting on corsets is no easy business, I can tell you.” Then she colored brightly, tilted her head down to study her finger and said, “Not that I’ve ever had trouble putting on your corset.”

  “At ease, my girl!” Agatha said on a trilling laugh. “I assure you, the thought never occurred to me and even if it had, I would not care either way. You are free to grumble about tightening my stays belowstairs to your heart’s content.”

  Her mood much improved, Agatha decided she was being too particular in her taste, which she attributed to tiredness. Between her Addlewit drawing and the mysterious letter, she had gotten very little sleep the night before. Clearly, that was why she wasn’t quite satisfied with the drawing. Ellen, who appeared well rested, thought it a harmless representation of vanity and suffering. She should be pleased.

  I am pleased, she told herself, signing the drawing with a flourish. Then she wrapped it for transport to Mrs. Biddle’s shop, left it on the table for Ellen
to deliver and followed her maid to her bedchamber to change for Lady Kennington’s rout.

  Chapter Six

  As soon as Viscount Addleson saw the drawing of him carrying his own seat in the House of Lords, he presented himself at 227 St. James’s Street and demanded to meet the artist.

  Mrs. Biddle had heard many such requests in the six years she had owned her shop, for none of the gentry liked to see themselves represented as fools, deviants or scoundrels and often wanted to enact some sort of revenge on the perpetrator. It made no difference if the subject was male or female, as both sexes had easily punctured vanities. She knew what it was like to find yourself under attack—as the owner of a print shop, she suffered verbal assaults almost daily—but she never took the insults to heart. It genuinely did not bother her if Mr. So-and-So thought she had the face of a cow or if Lady This-and-That questioned the legitimacy of her birth. She had a business to run and no time to nurse wounded egos.

  Likewise, she had little patience for the righteous outrage of an angry public and had developed a strategy for handling complaints. When she first opened her shop, she had vigorously refused to provide any information about her associates. That practical approach, however, yielded little success, for the sanctimonious targets of cutting satire could not easily be swayed from their purpose. Undoubtedly, another tactic was in order and Mrs. Biddle (née Miss Biddle) found it in the person of Mr. Biddle, a fictitious husband who could never be located when he was most required. He was a very useful creature, for not only was he intractable and often drunk, but also he allowed Mrs. Biddle to side with her victims. She would happily provide the information if only Mr. Biddle would relent.