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

to be swayed.
    “No, no, no,” Petrie said suddenly and vigorously, as if confirming the viscount’s thoughts, which would have been an impressive feat, for the speaker seemed entirely unaware that his lordship had any. “You must not ask me about the soil quality of the Atlantic coastline, for my assistant, Mr. Clemmons, is not here and he knows all the precise details of my research, which is, as of yet, incomplete. You are right to point out the several articles I’ve published on Ammophila breviligulata, as they caused quite a stir in my home state. I look forward to working further with those subjects when I return to New York. I suppose I could have declined this trip to pursue my study, but an invitation to speak at the British Horticultural Society is too great an honor to turn down. If only my assistant were here. He had been all ready to board the ship with me when he was suddenly and inexplicably overcome by a hideous stomach ailment. But that is neither here nor there, for your interest is only in the suppositions that I hope to confirm as soon as I return to New York, which has several promising islands in the immediate environs of the port. However, since you asked, I will discuss the tolerance of Ammophila breviligulata to intense heat, excessive sunlight and drying winds.”
    The truth was, of course, that Addleson had not asked about the soil quality of the Atlantic coastline, and he strongly doubted the American would have heard the question if he had. Like all bores, he preferred his own thoughts and opinions to the exclusion of others and had changed the subject from Agastache rupestris to Ammophila breviligulata without any prompting from his victim. Addleson’s father had been the same way, pontificating at length on topics of interest to him, but the late viscount had the additional debility of limited intelligence, which made him suspicious of everyone, including his son.
    Smothering a sigh, Addleson glanced around the parlor, a comfortable room decorated in quiet shades of blue and gray, and spotted his cousin by the window in deep conversation with the Earl of Moray. Edward wore an expression of amazed wonder as he nodded agreeably to everything Moray said. No doubt they were discussing the vital importance of sun to Flowericus randomonus. A few feet to their left was Lord Bolingbroke, a tall, stout gentleman whose imposing stature was undermined by the look of rapt fascination on his face and a coquelicot waistcoat two sizes too small. Examining him, Addleson could not decide which of his host’s offenses was greater: his complete indifference to the suffering of one of his guests or his offensively bright, ill-fitting, red waistcoat.
    No, thought Addleson with a small shake of his head, it was easily the waistcoat. Obliviousness could always be dismissed as the unanticipated effect of excessive excitement, but there was never an excuse for displaying poor sartorial judgment. If one could not be relied upon to show faultless taste at all times, then one was obligated to hire a valet who would. It was the single most important rule of being a titled gentleman, after cooling down your horses properly following exercise and giving your servants generous Boxing Day presents.
    As understanding as Addleson was of his host’s distraction, he still could not help being irked by it. Yes, the waistcoat was the graver sin, but its unappealing color did not entirely overshadow Bolingbroke’s failure to attend to his duties as host. Even if he did not notice Petrie monopolizing the viscount, surely he should have noticed the viscount monopolizing Petrie. After all, the man was the guest of honor, the reason the large and elegant crowd had gathered in the blue-gray parlor, and yet nobody had tried to claim his attention for—Addleson looked at his watch—twenty-three minutes. Certainly by now a kindly onlooker or an impatient admirer should have saved the naturalist from the viscount’s clutches with a