The Bolingbroke Chit: A Regency Romance by Lynn Messina Page A

of her father’s employer, rather than the woman who owned the print shop. It was another precaution they took to protect Agatha’s secret. “It is odd, however, because it doesn’t seem to be from”—she paused awkwardly as she wondered how to say it without mentioning a name—“the, ah, Mr. Floris.”
    As Agatha stepped out of her dress, she glanced at her bedside table and noted that the handwriting on the letter did look different. Perhaps Mrs. Biddle had hired an assistant to attend to her business affairs. The majority of Biddle’s communications with Mr. Holyroodhouse were curt missives conveying compensation for services rendered. Every few months or so, the shop owner included a longer message reporting on the success of her prints in order to give her a sense of how the public responded to her work. This was how she knew that caricatures of the Harlow Hoyden and Lady Agony sold particularly well.
    Yawning, she reached for the letter, then bent her neck as Ellen draped her nightdress over her head. Agatha knew she was supposed to do something with her hair—brush it a hundred times to make it shine or wrap it around strips of paper to ensure curls—but she was too practical for such vanities. Even on nights when she wasn’t exhausted to the bone, she refused to submit to anything other than a sturdy nightcap, an eccentricity that both pleased and dismayed her lady’s maid. Ellen delighted in working for such a sensible woman with a sense of purpose but despaired at ever having the opportunity of showing her to her best advantage.
    Agatha climbed into bed as she unfolded the note and perused it with sleepy eyes.
     
    Dear Mr. Holyroodhouse,
     
    It is a pleasure to establish contact with you, for I am perhaps your greatest admirer and enjoy with all possible pleasure the drawings you produce. Your recent skewering of Miss Lavinia Harlow was a masterpiece, and you captured the situation with such la élégance that I am in awe of your skill. Your accomplishment was so impressive that I didn’t even notice the harshness with which you treated the other members of the horticultural society, who were, by all accounts, mere bystanders to Huntly’s folly.
     
    Your drawing, however, did not go far enough, for it showed Miss Harlow to be the harpy she is but not the villain.
     
    No doubt you are startled by my applying the word villain to such a gently bred young lady. Do not be fooled, Mr. Holyroodhouse, by appearances. As an artist, you must realize that there is much we don’t see seething beneath the surface.
     
    In the case of Vinnie Harlow, this is especially true.
     
    I am in possession of sensitive information that is essential to the work you do. Please know that I don’t share it with you lightly but with a heavy heart, for I am but a simple, humble farmer, a good and generous person who treats everyone with the kindness they deserve. I wish that Miss Harlow deserved more kindness, but like all villains she has forfeited that courtesy.
     
    Now to the information: Miss Harlow’s fiancé’s death was not quite the hapless accident everyone believes it to be. Insider reports indicate that she had a hand in it.
     
    You are shocked! A refined gentleman such as yourself cannot conceive of such treachery, and I understand. However, you must believe me when I tell you my source is unimpeachable. A great injustice has been done to Sir Waldo, and it’s up to you to bring it to light. I do not mean for you to lay a charge against the woman but for you to subtly but honestly hint at the truth in one of your clever drawings. If she is innocent, then no harm will befall her. But if she is guilty, as I believe, she will begin to act thus and reveal the truth for everyone to see.
     
    I cannot say more at this time, for to do so would be to endanger us both, but I’m trusting you to do the right thing.
     
    With the greatest of faith,
     
    Anon
     
    Agatha’s sleepiness fell away as she read the letter,