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

let you comfort Lady Agatha, whilst I share my knowledge of sunset hyssop with that gentleman over there who just claimed to know nothing of it.”
    At once, Mr. Petrie was off, darting across the room with his magnifying glass held high like a flag, his eyes aglow with excitement. His impatience was so great, he didn’t bother to wait for Addleson to finish his sentence or for him to indicate the interested party. Instead, he waylaid the first person to cross his path and accosted him with facts about Agastache rupestris. Waldegrave’s confusion was apparent, but the young lord, perceiving himself complimented by the older man’s attentions, immediately fell in with the impromptu tutoring session and examined the root system of the flower with an interested smile.
    Addleson watched the happy exchange with relief, for he had begun to despair of ever shaking off the cloying American. He imagined himself at home in his bedchamber, Girard laying out his nightclothes with careful consideration as Mr. Petrie, his lecture unceasing, detailed the virtues of North American flowers. Shivering with distaste, Addleson decided it was time to escape rather than risk another incident and immediately sought out his host.
    In rapid succession, he thanked Lady Bolingbroke for her gracious hospitality, assured Lord Bolingbroke that he would not attend Mr. Petrie’s address at the horticultural society in ten days’ time, arranged to meet his cousin at White’s later in the evening, complimented the Earl of Moray on the towering achievement that was his cravat and neatly sidestepped Mr. Harrington Corduroy, whose polka-dot waistcoat would have precluded him from conversation with the viscount, even if his meandering discourse had not. Then Addleson exited the parlor though the door to the right.
    He sense of accomplishment at having skillfully eluded further conversation was sharply undermined by an unexpected loss of balance. He lurched, then wobbled and teetered, before steadying himself with a firm hand against the wall. Astonished by the awkwardness, for Viscount Addleson never faltered—not literally, not figuratively—he stared blankly at his feet for a moment, his eyes slowly focusing on the rug. He had tripped over a frayed edge, which was, he realized, hardly surprising. It seemed inevitable that a man so passionately devoted to plants would let his house run to seed.
    Addleson impatiently straightened his shoulders and lifted his head to find himself once again the object of Lady Agatha Bolingbroke’s steady gaze. Naturally, he was disconcerted to realize he was being observed, a development he sought to disguise by striding confidently up to her. He stopped a little closer than was suitable and noted with surprise how firmly she held her ground. Other ladies would have taken a cautionary step back; she inched forward.
    “I trust you are recovered from your fall,” she said mildly.
    Too mildly, Addleson thought, fully aware that her overt consideration was actually covert mockery. He was not, as a rule, a person given to wild surmise, but he couldn’t entirely squelch the suspicion that she had deliberately arranged the carpet to bring about his mishap. It was absurd, of course, for it would require divine omniscience to know though which door her intended victim would leave the room.
    “I am, yes, fully recovered,” he said, resisting the urge to correct her, as his momentary bobble did not quite rise to the level of a fall. “And I trust you’ve recovered your wit. Mr. Petrie must have addled you a great deal if you were unable to formulate a reply.”
    Addleson did not have to see the flicker in her eyes to realize how much Lady Agatha despised the suggestion that there was something, anything, she was unable to do. It was immediately apparent in every line of her body—her stiffened shoulders, her raised head, her narrowed gaze.
    “On the contrary,” she said, her tone as underwhelmingly bland as before, “I