For a moment—for just the shortest, briefest span of time—Agatha gave the naïve young schoolgirl free rein and allowed herself to feel pleasure in his company. At the sight of his bright, handsome face, those skilled red lips, the tight knot in her stomach simply unraveled, as if it had been a loosely tied silk bow all along, and she indulged the bittersweet joy of a hopeless passion.
The cherished attic studio, with its bright sunlight and doting viscount, would never be, but for that one brief moment she let herself have the dream. She let herself luxuriate in the fantasy, then, appalled by her own missishness, she slammed the door on the lovely scene and faced reality.
With hard-won calm, she addressed Addleson. “It is very good to see you, as well. I trust everything is in order?”
The viscount glanced at his watch. “Our quarry is due to arrive in a half hour. Come, let’s go inside and familiarize you with the setting for our scene.”
Agatha nodded and followed the viscount into the taproom, which was dark and grimy and malodorous and every bit as unsavory as Addleson had implied. Rough-hewn men with blackened fingernails laughed and drank and glared at one another at wooden tables.
As the site of Townshend’s downfall, the Rusty Plinth was ideal.
“There’s a private room in the back,” Addleson said close to her ear.
Fascinated by the company, Agatha nodded absently and wondered if she could re-create their worn faces and scarred hands and their threadbare clothes.
“Through here,” Addleson added, applying very slight pressure to her back as he directed her into the second room, which was livelier and brighter than the main hall, with emerald curtains and a yellow settee. The smell was vastly improved, as well, for although the stench of tobacco, sour ale and sweat still hung in the air, it was fainter and less sinister.
Agatha took her first easy breath since entering the establishment.
Standing in the middle of the room was a trio of gentlemen whom Addleson promptly introduced as Bow Street Runners. The men had been informed of the plan and were prepared to arrest Townshend should he not agree to their terms.
The sight of the Runners, so imposing and official in their black topcoats, unnerved Agatha, and the silk ribbon in her stomach ably tied itself into another knot. Nevertheless, she managed to greet them calmly as she looked around the room for a nook or cranny commodious enough to conceal four large gentlemen. There seemed to be none, unless all of them could somehow squeeze themselves behind the love seat.
As if sensing her concern, the viscount said, “While you are meeting with Townshend, we shall be hiding behind the curtains. I know what you’re thinking, of course.”
“Really?” she asked, surprised, for in truth she did not know the answer to that herself. The agitation of the moment had made her mind curiously blank.
“You can’t conceive of how a man of fashion such as myself would consent to hide behind a curtain of such an unflattering shade of green. Your concern is warranted, for this garish emerald not only clashes with my olive tailcoat but also gives my complexion an unhealthy yellow tinge,” he drawled. “Naturally, I entertained the idea of hiring a seamstress to replace the drapes with a set in a more temperate color such as dark blue, which goes with everything, but our plan required prompt action and left no time for redecoration. You must not despair, my dear, that I’m renouncing a lifelong pledge never to align myself with emerald green, for no sacrifice is too great to ensure your freedom.”
His nonsensical chatter, so familiar and dear, at once broke her heart and calmed her nerves. “Your forbearance is impressive, my lord, for even from this great distance, the emerald drapes are spoiling your complexion to an alarming degree. It is unpleasant to look upon, but I shall demonstrate the same forbearance by not flinching at the sight of your alarming yellowness.”
“Your heroism is humbling,” Addleson said admiringly.
Because she knew he was joking, despite the sincerity in his voice, she shrugged nonchalantly, as if she were offered effusive compliments every day of the week. Then she changed the subject, for his praise made the silk knots in her stomach flutter uncomfortably. “Is it not time for everyone to take their places?” she asked. “Townshend will be here at any moment.”
“You are right,” he said as the Runners disappeared behind the voluminous folds of the drapes. “He will arrive in a minute or two and when he does, I want you to remember I am nearby. If he does anything to frighten you, if he looks at you oddly or says something you dislike, all you have to do is call out and I will be at your side.”
He spoke forcefully, as if determined to imprint his words onto her brain, and she nodded. “Yes, of course.”
Addleson examined her closely for another moment more, perhaps, she thought, trying to find a hint of fear in her eyes, then raised a hand as if to caress her. Agatha froze, anticipating the exquisite torture of his touch, but his arm fell so quickly to his side, she wondered if her besotted mind had imagined the movement.
“Good,” he said with one final nod. Then he, too, disappeared behind an emerald green curtain, and suddenly Agatha was alone. She knew she was not really by herself, but as she stood there in the middle of the room waiting for a villain to appear, she felt abandoned by life and circumstance. It was absurd to regret the decisions she had made and in truth she was satisfied with her existence, for it was better to have herself than a husband who would dictate her choices, and yet she felt unbearably sad at the thought of this escapade ending. Plotting with the viscount in the library had given her the same ineffable contentment as painting, and she knew she would never forget the closeness she had felt or that irrepressible yearning to be closer still.
For all her giddy swooning, Lady Agatha Bolingbroke knew she was not a naïve young schoolgirl, as that intemperate creature would be on to the next infatuation by the end of the week.
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.