by Abigail Agar
THE END
(Turn the page to read “The Secret Identity of the Lord's Aide”, my Amazon Best-Selling novel!)
The Secret Identity of the Lord's Aide
Introduction
Lady Elizabeth Byrd is a young clever woman. The future seems bright for her until the people she felt closest to are about to ruin everything. Disgraced by a situation she never intended to be a part of and hidden from society, she starts ghostwriting political analyses. But she was never prepared for the Lord who would ask for her help. Will she risk and accept the challenging deal he suggests or will she condemn herself once more to an inglorious anonymous life?
Lord Linfield is handsome, intelligent and he believes he has all the qualifications needed in order to follow a political career, just like his father. When he fails as a writer and an orator, a helping hand will be more than necessary. In his despair, he decides to meet the mysterious talented writer behind all these positive reviews written about him and to ask for guidance. Will he manage to become the politician he dreams of or will he fail once more, losing the only woman he has come to love in the process?
When the deal between the two heroes becomes far more complicated than either of them could have ever imagined, they will have to make crucial decisions. Will they let their hearts guide them or will they remain firm in the beliefs that have held them back in all their lives?
Chapter 1
Lady Elizabeth Byrd stood at the teensy height of just five foot two. Her russet hair curled wildly down her back, after it dropped from her bun midway through the day, and her eyes were curious and alight—scouring the newspaper for the best political, philosophical, and satirical essays of the day. At twenty-nine years old, her mind was a whirring mechanism, never-stopping. Her best friend, Irene, said that was her top redeeming quality, and also her biggest fault.
“It’s why I took you in,” Irene had sighed frequently, rolling her eyes back. “You’re never boring. You’re frequently annoying.”
It was true that Irene Follett had seen more promise in Elizabeth—known as Bess amongst her closest friends (Irene being one of the only ones)—than anyone else, and had yanked her out of the terrors of society after a particularly wretched year in Bess’ life.
Things that seemed difficult to verbalise, in everyday conversation.
The death of her fiancé. The running away of her father.
The loss of her entire fortune.
Every possible horrendous thing that could happen to a young woman, they had all occurred to Bess before her 25th year. So: what was there left for a woman to do?
Secretarial work, of course. At least, that’s what the unequivocally bright Lady Elizabeth Byrd had been hunkering down with in the years since she’d abandoned Society for good. Gone were the endless nights of dancing quadrilles. Gone were the days of thinking of ways to please men—Lords, Earls, what have you. Suddenly, she had her entire life before her—entirely hers to sculpt. It was the most terrifying thing in the world.
“And, perhaps, the most liberating,” Irene reminded her frequently.
Now, Bess heard the cackle of her best friend and roommate, Irene, as she burst open the door of their London apartment—deep in what was often termed the “dangerous” neighbourhood—to discover a mighty bouquet of roses. Bess rushed from her bedroom, her curls falling down her back. When she reached Irene, she blared, “What is it?” her heart racing wildly in her throat.
But Irene just spun back, her eyes glowing above bright pink cheeks. She pressed the roses forward, grinning wildly. Lady Bess turned back towards the kitchen of their home, watching as the kettle billowed smoke above the small fire in the corner. She rolled her eyes, guiding Irene back into the house.
“Is he really so amazingly cartoony?” Bess sighed, speaking of the roses. She gripped the kettle with a towel and tapped it atop the counter, swishing her palms together. “I mean, really, Irene. The man belittled your intelligence the last time you spent time together. I was seated directly beside you. I thought for sure you were going to smack him.”
Irene giggled again, slipping the roses into a vase atop the table and plumping them at the bottom to make the bouquet look full. She grinned to herself, speaking in a soft voice, “You know, Lord Charles can be a complete imbecile. And the fact that he said that, well. I’ve been avoiding him at all costs. Making sure he knows what kind of mistake he made.”
Bess poured them each a cup of tea, arching her brow. “So you think he learned his lesson?”
“It’s impossible to know.” Irene sighed. “But I agreed to meet with him at the ball next Saturday evening, to give him a dance.”
“All because of some silly flowers?” Bess asked, rolling her eyes. “Lord Charles doesn’t know what he has. You’re the editor of a newspaper, for goodness sake, Irene. And he treats you like you’re a child.”
At this, Irene sniffed, drawing her chin higher. She gave a sharp look to Bess, who was a good half-a-head shorter than her good friend, and spoke with a harsh tone. Bess waited, sensing that her friend Irene was falling from the clouds and dropping, dropping back to the reality of this dismal morning in mid-April. Rain peppered the glass windows. The tea was a necessary warmth, coating their throats.
“As if you know anything about courting,” Irene said.
It was a fair point. Bess opened her lips, arching her brow with curiosity. Ordinarily, when Irene turned a strange shade of angry—she did it because she cared more.
But then, with a jolt, Bess realised she had to be at the homeless shelter within fifteen minutes. She rushed up from her chair, tossing her tea back to the table before them. “Can we finish this later?” she called, darting towards the coat rack. “It’s not because I don’t care …”
“I know, I know.” Irene sighed. “It’s because you care too much. About everyone.”
“I can’t help it,” Bess stammered, giving Irene a sly grin.
“I’ll see you later, my darling imbecile,” Irene said with a sigh.
“Love you, too,” Bess affirmed.
Chapter 2
Lord Nathaniel Linfield, the 7th Earl of Dartmouth, stood nearly six and a half feet tall, a full two heads over his mother, Lady Eloise Linfield, the Dowager Countess of Dartmouth. Regardless of his clear swagger, his dashing good looks, his broad shoulders and swept-back, blond curls, Lady Eloise had a way of staring her nose down upon him as if he was still that fourteen-year-old, cunning teen who’d sneaked out of the estate to toil in the forest for hours at a time—hunting, fishing, hiking. “Oh, Nathaniel. Is it possible that you’ll ever grow up?” his mother had sighed countless times back then.
Now, she had a habit of speaking in a similar, scathing tone, despite his thirty-three years. They stood in his father’s study, their feet atop the oriental rug his father had purchased on a long-ago journey through India.
“You can’t possibly believe you can just void yourself from society in this manner, Nathaniel,” his mother said, her voice studied and sharp.
“Void myself? Why, I can’t possibly understand what you mean,” Nathaniel said, turning towards the window. He latched his hands behind his back, at waist-level, and studied the trees as they tossed themselves to and fro in the fresh spring air. The smell of flowers whirled through the crack in the window, overpowering the gritty air of the city. He willed himself to be far from indoors—deep in the woods, his dog darting along at his side.
“You think you can step aside from a season of dancing quadrilles. Of meeting debutantes who are appropriate to extend our line, Nathaniel. But it’s simply not true. Which is why I’ve arranged a dinner with Lady Theresa Chesterson, a perfectly lovely girl with a stellar reputation. Her father is, of course, the nobleman Lord Chesterson …”
Nathaniel’s mother continued to prattle on, wielding her hand about the space around her while Nathaniel’s thoughts turned elsewhere. This certainly wasn’t the first time that his mother had set him up with a debutante with a crystal clear
reputation. Always, they were apt to converse about the most meaningless things—topics that made Nathaniel’s eyes glaze over and his hands twitch. “Is this really the best of London?” he’d frequently asked his mother, each time the women took their leave. “The very best we can do?”
Of course, Lord Linfield now faced another season of this drivel—of attending balls, of being introduced to bright-eyed ladies, bowing his head cordially, before shuffling back home as quick as his feet could take him. How small-minded it all felt! How foolish!
“Dinner will be at seven-thirty,” his mother said, her words blaring through his chaotic thoughts. “I expect you to be on your best behaviour.”
Nathaniel spun back towards her, giving her that killer, handsome smile—the one, he knew, had melted the hearts of half a dozen women on London’s east side. “Oh, Mother. When am I not?” he asked.
At seven-thirty, Nathaniel slipped his suit coat over his burly shoulders and sauntered down the sweeping staircase to enter the foyer. His mother had pulled out all the stops for the entryway decor, assumedly for their guest.
A mighty green plant—its leaves the size of plates—stretched to the ceiling in the corner. The antique mirror along the wall, said to be at least a hundred years old, reflected Nathaniel’s stellar good looks, his well-cut suit that highlighted the flat of his stomach and the curve of his biceps. He paused, his smile faltering in the mirror.
Was his entire life worth tied up in whoever he “matched” with? Wasn’t that disgusting? For a moment, he thought back to his father—a renowned leader within the Tories. As a child, years before his father’s death, Nathaniel had stood on the sidelines at his father’s speeches, watching as the man ripped his fist through the air, declaring a kind of reality that the people, the people who followed him, deserved.
His father had been a passionate, zealous man—a man with fine opinions and a way about him that made you want to lean closer, ask him for more. Nathaniel had never assumed himself to be much like his father, as he’d always been a bit quieter, a bit less social. He’d always been the first to race from the country home and fall into the wooded trails, retreating to the natural world. “What will become of him?” his father had once enquired of his mother. “I don’t suppose he’s a born political orator …”
Nathaniel shook the thoughts from his brain, turning his eyes towards the door. Someone knocked, causing the maid, Millie, to rush in from the kitchen, her hat nearly toppling from her head. She opened the door to uncover a rather pretty, delicate-looking woman, in her mid-20s, perhaps, wearing a light blue dress that swept to the floor. Beside her was an older woman, someone who seemed to be a sister or cousin, as their looks were similar but more rugged.
On cue, Nathaniel’s mother appeared in the two-storey entryway, just below the steps. “Good evening,” Lady Eloise said, strutting forward to greet the two women. “Lady Theresa, it’s marvellous to have you in our home. And I trust you’re Lady Sarah.” She reached out to kiss both women on the cheek.
She was always the most brilliant host, Nathaniel thought. Almost to an annoying degree.
Lady Theresa curtseyed before Nathaniel’s mother, before taking her hand. Lady Sarah beamed at both of them, before turning her dark eyes towards Nathaniel, upon the steps. Millie sneaked the door closed behind them, making a mighty “crack” sound. Nathaniel remained at a distance, watching the pomp and circumstance. He felt incredulous that all of this could possibly be for him. For his “benefit.”
Why couldn’t he just be left alone?
“Darling, I have someone to introduce to you!” his mother called from below, her eyes burning with promise.
Nathaniel felt guided by some unseen force. He draped his fingers over the railing and walked the rest of the way to the marble floor, feeling the heaviness of his feet as he marched toward the pretty girl. When he reached her, Lady Theresa outstretched her hand, and he knelt to kiss it.
“May I present to you Lady Theresa,” his mother said. “And of course, her cousin, the Lady Sarah.”
Nathaniel drew back to his full height, nearly a foot taller than Lady Theresa. He cleared his throat and then boomed, “Charmed, Lady Theresa. Lady Sarah. I am Lord Linfield. I trust you arrived comfortably?”
“Absolutely,” Lady Theresa said. “My carriage hand has just dropped me at the door. I trust that he can water and feed the horses as we dine?”
“That isn’t a problem whatsoever, darling,” Nathaniel’s mother said. She swept her hand to Lady Theresa’s lower back, gesturing towards the dining room. “Now, shall we sit? I know my dear Nathaniel is incredibly famished, as he spent the majority of the morning out in the woods. Didn’t you, darling?”
Nathaniel felt his throat constrict. Could it really be a fact of life that he was meant to remain at this dinner table alongside this young woman, asking dismal questions and waiting for the evening to end? He marched just behind Lady Sarah and Lady Theresa, conscious of a floral smell sweeping out from Lady Theresa’s curls. He imagined her alone at home, putting herself together. Thinking about the kind of life she might have with Lord Linfield, if she was given the chance to match.
Once at the dinner table, the talk continued to toil. His mother, to her credit, was bouncy and active, asking questions of Lady Theresa to allow Nathaniel to get to know her.
“You must have heard of my dear late husband,” Lady Eloise said, turning her fork through a small mound of potatoes. “Nathaniel’s father. He was one of the leaders of the Tories, you know. Quite a prosperous man.”
Lady Theresa blinked wide, deer-like eyes towards Nathaniel. She’d hardly eaten a single morsel on her plate, perhaps because she was anxious, or just stupid, Nathaniel thought. His nostrils flared.
“My father did say something about him,” Lady Theresa said. Her voice was strangely high-pitched, irritating, like a mosquito buzzing in Nathaniel’s ear.
His mother laughed, a strange, bell-like tinkling laugh. “I’m sure it’s none of your concern, hearing anything about politics. Here, darling, why don’t you have another roll? You’re nothing but skin and bone, aren’t you?”
Beside his mother and Lady Theresa, Lady Sarah turned sombre eyes towards her own half-munched roll. Her cheeks sagged slightly. It was clear she was married, another bored housewife watching over her younger, single cousin. Always, during these meetings, Lord Linfield strained, wondering just what someone like Lady Theresa might say if they were ever alone.
He couldn’t imagine her coming up with a single sentence that would captivate him. Couldn’t imagine that she would have a single inkling of anything regarding his father’s political stances, or the ways in which he was attempting to shift the world around him.
God, what on earth was he doing?
Nathaniel’s hands formed to fists. He smashed them against his thigh, forcing himself to speak. The noise didn’t carry, but his mother recognised a shift in Nathaniel. She spun her sharp-nosed face towards him, arching her brow.
“Nathaniel. Is there something you wish to say?” she asked.
Lady Theresa and her cousin, Lady Sarah, gaped at him. Outside, a carriage eased past, with the horses’ hooves crumpling across the cobblestones. Lord Linfield wished he was anywhere else—walking the streets of London alone, or marching his boots across soggy land in one wood or another. But instead, he was trapped at yet another meeting of yet another woman who he couldn’t possibly live with for the rest of his life.
It wasn’t that Lady Theresa was horribly wrong. It wasn’t that she wasn’t lovely, for she truly was. But when Lord Linfield glanced in her direction, he felt as though rocks formed in his stomach. He felt only dread.
“I have an announcement, Mother,” he declared then.
His mother waited before forming her lips into a round O. All three women gaped at him as if he were a strange performer. He cleared his throat once more before proceeding. He’d already pushed himself this far.
“I’ve decided that I will follow in
my father’s path,” he continued. “I will follow his footsteps into Parliament, as a leader within the Tories.”
