The Secretary

by Brooke, Meg

  “Oh, no, Leo. Really?” It was Anders’s turn to groan. The twins were charming girls, but they were just that: girls. Anders knew for a fact that they had barely turned eighteen in October. Indeed, he had been invited down for the house-party to celebrate. During that weekend, both Lady Georgina and Lady Maris had thrown themselves at him—separately, thank God. Still, it was not a scene he wanted replayed, especially given the fact that the girls were eleven years younger than he was and not what he considered good candidates for the position of Countess of Stowe.

  “I wanted to give you both fair warning,” Leo was saying. “Mother has decided she’ll take no less than a baron for each of them, and since there are few eligible bachelors of rank on the market, her list is rather...short.”

  “Lord,” Bainbridge swore again. “I think I’ve already sent my acceptance for their come-out ball.”

  “I haven’t,” Anders said, but when Leo shot him a desperate look he added, “but I’ll gladly dance with both your sisters there. Your mother must be patient. I don’t know exactly how many eligible men of rank there are in London this season—”

  “Twenty-two,” Leo muttered. “Including the two of you. She told me three times just at breakfast this morning. I think she might even have the list memorized.”

  “Well, I’m sure she’ll find someone suitable for each of the girls. Anyway, let your mother worry about that. We’ve more important things to do at the moment.”

  “Oh, yes,” Bain said as Leo and Anders rose to return to the House. “Go off and play at kings and governments. I’ll be here, finishing up the cakes.”

  True to his word, Lord Stowe met Clarissa in the Peers’ Lobby almost immediately after the session was finished. It had been a rather short affair, as the only matter of business had been Charles Manners-Sutton’s declaration that the choice of Speaker had once more fallen on him, and the traditional speech expressing his humility.

  “Could he have been any more obsequious?” Lord Stowe asked as he climbed into the carriage. “He gives that same speech about how he’s not worthy of the post each year. ‘And if His Majesty should be graciously pleased to disapprove’,” he quoted. “I very highly doubt His Majesty cares enough to approve or disapprove the choice of Speaker.”

  “But surely he would disapprove if a Whig were chosen,” Clarissa said.

  “Yes, he would,” Lord Stowe agreed. “But the odds of that happening seem slim now. We all thought there was a chance after the Reform Act passed, but...oh, well. The gears of government will continue to turn, I’m sure. Ford?”

  “Yes, My Lord?”

  “I’ve been meaning to ask you—did you—that is, do you know Martin’s daughter?”

  Clarissa felt as though the bottom of the carriage had dropped out from under her. “Yes,” she managed to squeak. “Yes I do.”

  “Does she still live in London, do you know?”

  “She does, My Lord.” Clarissa could hear her heart hammering. “In...in Knightsbridge,” she added, instantly cursing herself.

  “I was thinking I’d like to visit her. To pay my respects. I had a great deal of admiration for her father. Do you think you could arrange it?”

  “I...I suppose so,” Clarissa stammered. “I know she sometimes receives callers on...on Sundays, in the afternoon.”

  “Excellent. Does she live with her mother?”

  “Oh, no, My Lord. Mrs. Martin died when Miss Martin was quite young, I believe. I don’t think she has any family to speak of.”

  “Well, she must be old enough to receive gentlemen alone.”

  “I believe she is about my age, My Lord.”

  “Well, then...you’ll arrange it?”

  “Yes, of course,” Clarissa said. Lord Stowe nodded and turned his gaze out the window. She took a few deep breaths, thankful at least that she had chosen Sunday. At least then she would not have to juggle her two selves at once. But why could she not have lied and said that Jonah Martin had had no children? No, it would not have been wise. Lord Stowe had not asked if Martin had a daughter, but if Clarence Ford knew her. He had already heard that Jonah Martin had left behind a child. He just wanted to pay his respects. Well, she would receive him and that would be that. Now she just had to scrape together the funds for tea and cakes.

  ***

  Sunday morning dawned bright and clear, but there was a hint of snow on the wind. Clarissa buttoned her pelisse tightly before leaving for church. It was only as she was locking her door that she remembered Richard Whibley. He would be waiting for her there. For a moment she considered turning right around and hiding in her flat until the afternoon. But she had promised, and though her father might not have approved of her being courted by a young man—he had always said he would rather she not marry at all—he certainly would not have liked her breaking a promise.

  Mr. Whibley was, indeed, waiting for her outside Holy Trinity, hat in hand. He smiled when he saw her coming. “Good morning, Miss Martin.”

  “Good morning, Mr. Whibley,” she said, returning his smile and taking his arm. He really was a perfectly lovely gentleman, she thought again as he led her into the church and towards a pew. They chatted amiably about the church, which was new-built and had only been consecrated a few years earlier, and about the Parliamentary session.

  “I understand the king will make his speech on Tuesday,” Whibley said. “Will you be attending?”

  “No,” she said. “I have...another appointment.”

  “But your brother will be there.”

  “My...yes. Yes he will,” she said, only remembering at that moment that she had said Clarence Ford was her brother. She tried now to remember if she had said her brother’s name was Martin or Ford—or if she had said his name at all. She was beginning to understand why her father had said telling the truth was much easier than lying—there were far fewer details to keep organized.

  “I’m surprised he isn’t here today,” Whibley commented, looking around as if Clarissa had concealed him amidst the pews.

  “He lives in another part of London, Mr. Whibley, and is much occupied with his duties to the earl.”

  “I see,” Whibley said as the organ began to play. He said nothing to her for the rest of the service, for which Clarissa was grateful. It allowed her to concentrate on praying.

  Dear Lord, she thought as they opened their hymnals, please forgive me for all the lies I have told this week, and all those I will probably tell in the weeks to come.

  She was not sure if the Lord heard her.

  “Have you met him, then?” Whibley asked as they left the church.

  “Met who?”

  “The earl.”

  “I have not,” Clarissa said. “My brother says he is a good man.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. There are few enough of those in Parliament.”

  “Really?”

  “Indeed. Why, just the other day I was taken to task by Earl Grey himself, and for nothing more than proposing a simple efficiency.”

  “What sort of efficiency?” Clarissa asked.

  “Well, you see, there are all these tally-sticks left over from decades ago clogging up the storage rooms of the Exchequer.”

  “The Exchequer? Whatever for?”

  “They were used back in the days when the account-keepers couldn’t read. But now they’re obsolete, of course, and yet no one has disposed of them. So I proposed that we give them out to the poor for fuel.”

  “What a splendid idea,” Clarissa said, and she truly meant it. She had learned in just a few days at the Palace of Westminster that efficiency was considered a rude word by some of the members.

  “I thought so too, but Earl Grey apparently did not. He thinks the sticks are being kept for some purpose or other, though who knows what. More than likely they’ll end up getting dumped in the Thames.”

  “Oh, I hope not,” Clarissa said. They were nearing Trevor Street now. “I must be going, Mr. Whibley. Thank you so much for walking me home.”

  �
��It was my pleasure, Miss Martin. Perhaps you might consider allowing me to escort you home again next Sunday?”

  “I would like that very much,” Clarissa said, and she allowed him to kiss her hand before she turned into Trevor Street. Only when she had rounded the corner into the alley did she quicken her pace. There was still a great deal to do, and she expected the earl in just a few short hours.

  Anders had worried that Martin’s daughter might be living in some sort of run-down hovel, but Trevor Street turned out to be a rather respectable-looking neighborhood. The building in which Miss Martin lived appeared in good repair, though it took Anders a few moments to find her door. In addition to the time he was expected, Ford had written rather cryptic directions for him on a little slip of paper, and he spent longer than he would have liked staring at the front of the building before he realized that he was supposed to turn down the alley. When he at last found the door, the narrow staircase beyond gave him some pause, and he became even more puzzled when he had gone up two flights without seeing a single flat.

  At last he reached the top and knocked on the lone door. It was opened by a rather striking young woman, pale and fair-haired with startling blue eyes. “Miss Martin, I presume,” he said.

  “Your Lordship,” the young woman said, smoothing her dress with one hand as she held the door for him. “Please come in.”

  Anders did as he was bid, trying not to stare. The few times he had met Jonah Martin, the man had struck him as a classic academic, thin and wiry and squint-eyed. He had expected Martin’s daughter to follow in the vein, right down to the unkempt dark hair and spectacles, but instead he found a beauty—an unrefined beauty, of course, like an uncut diamond, but a diamond nonetheless. He began to think that perhaps it was a mistake to have come alone.

  “Would you care for tea?” Miss Martin was asking. She gestured to a rather worn armchair as she took a seat on an equally well-used divan.

  “Yes, thank you.” He waited as she poured for both of them, trying to get comfortable in the lumpy chair. As put the pot down he glanced quickly around the flat. It was small but serviceable. The wallpaper and furnishings had clearly seen better days, but everything was clean and orderly, including Miss Martin, spare and trim in her pink day-dress. But spare and trim seemed to suit her. She looked perfectly at ease as she handed him his teacup.

  After he had taken a few sips, he said, “I wanted to express my condolences in person, Miss Martin, on the loss of your father. He was a great man and I admired him very much.”

  Miss Martin looked evenly at him, but it was an expression he recognized. She had lost her lodestone, and she was holding the pieces of her life together with both hands. He had seen that same expression on Leo’s face when his friend had lost his father five years earlier. It was a long, slow climb up from such a loss. “Thank you, My Lord,” Miss Martin said. “It was very sudden. I still find myself thinking that I will walk in the door one afternoon and see him waiting here for me.”

  “You lived here when he was still alive?” Anders asked without thinking. “Forgive me,” he said immediately. “That was an impertinent question.”

  “No offense taken, My Lord,” Miss Martin said, and the corners of her mouth lifted in a little smile. She had an alluring mouth, Anders thought. “We lived in Piccadilly when my father was still alive, in a townhouse near the Quadrant. I moved here after his death.”

  “He did...forgive me, Miss Martin, but I am going to ask another impertinent question.”

  “There is no need to ask, My Lord. I know your question, and I am not ashamed to answer it. My father left me enough to live on. I am quite comfortable here.”

  He could see that she lied, but there was nothing he could do about it. “And your mother is gone as well.”

  “She died when I was an infant,” Clarissa said. She stood and disappeared into the other room for a moment, and when she returned she had a miniature in her hand. “Here is her portrait.”

  Anders studied the picture, though he saw little resemblance between the subject and the woman before him. Neither of her parents could take credit for her beauty, then. “Do you see Mr. Ford often?” he asked.

  “Often enough,” she said. “He is my connection to the world of politics, now that my father is gone.”

  “Your father was a law professor at one time, was he not?”

  She nodded. “He taught at Balliol for fifteen years before being elected to Parliament.”

  “An Oxford man,” Anders scoffed.

  “Ah,” she said, wrinkling her nose in a way that made her look young and carefree. “Cambridge, I take it?”

  “Yes,” he laughed, “though now I rather regret it. When I say I was an admirer of your father’s, Miss Martin, I mean it. I would have greatly enjoyed having him as a teacher.”

  “That is kind of you to say.”

  “It is also the truth,” he insisted.

  “Perhaps,” she said, laughing, “this is one of those rare instances when it is kinder to tell the truth. But you are right. He was an even better teacher than he was an MP, My Lord. He raised me on the law, on its beauty and purpose.”

  “Did he teach you other things as well as the law?”

  “Oh yes,” she said, and she gestured to a narrow bookshelf on which sat several volumes that had clearly been very well loved. “He was a great lover of Shakespeare, though only the dramas. I had to sneak the comedies up to my room. And he taught me to read Greek and Latin and to speak French, though with rather a terrible accent, I think. The Greek books are gone, however,” she added mournfully. “There is nothing like one of the Greek plays in the original language.”

  “You’re better off than me,” Anders said. “I speak Russian and a smattering of Danish, thanks to my mother.”

  “She was Danish?”

  He shook his head. “My grandmother. She would have wanted me to say she was Norwegian, actually.”

  “Well, one of these days Norway will gain its independence again and then you’ll have to claim your proud heritage.”

  Anders blinked at her. He had never met a woman before who knew as much as Miss Martin about British politics let alone those on the continent. “Yes,” he managed. He was in the process of making a rather foolhardy decision. But there was no one to tell him no, and he felt a great desire to do a good turn for this woman he barely knew. He made up his mind. Then he cleared his throat. “Miss Martin,” he said, “as you are fond of Shakespeare, I wonder whether you wouldn’t like to join my party at the theatre on Tuesday night. They are all good friends, and I think you would enjoy the play. It is Two Gentlemen of Verona, I believe.”

  She appeared to consider it for quite some time before she said, “I would like that very much, My Lord.”

  “Excellent,” he said, rising. “I must be on my way, but my carriage will be outside at nine o’clock on Tuesday.”

  “Thank you, My Lord,” she said, and she escorted him the three steps to the door.

  Clarissa closed the door behind the earl and breathed a sigh of relief. At least he hadn’t recognized her. And because she had already spent so much time with him as Clarence Ford, she had been less befuddled by his winning smiles and deep gray eyes than she might have been if this had truly been their first meeting. She had managed to be composed and calm, which had probably helped her to keep from giving anything away.

  She leaned back against the door. She had been cool and collected, yes, but that didn’t mean she had been unaffected by his penetrating stares. But he had done the one thing that truly made her melt, though she knew it was ridiculous that it should do so: he had praised her father. And in addition, he had not scoffed at her thirst for knowledge. It was fortunate, however, that he had not noticed the volumes of Wordsworth and Byron that hid among the more scholarly tomes on her shelf—as much as she loved the writings of the great thinkers, there was also a part of her that hungered for magic and beauty. She knew that there were many young women who eagerly devoured the wo
rks of the romantic poets. She was just glad he did not know she was one of them.

  When did you become so ashamed to be a woman? she asked herself.

  No matter. As she replayed their conversation in her head, she realized that she now had bigger things to worry about. Had she truly agreed to go to the theatre with him? She was sure Lord Sidney would also be one of the party, and perhaps the odious Marquis of Cayleigh as well. Would either of them recognize her? She had had trouble enough pretending to arrange this meeting between Lord Stowe and Miss Martin, going back and forth until a time had been agreed upon. Could she truly maintain the pretense for a whole evening?

  She wouldn’t have agreed at all, but it had been so long since she had gone anywhere. At least he had not invited her to dine beforehand. That would give her some time after they had finished work for the day to rush home and change back into herself.

  But what on earth was she to wear?

  She would have to visit Simms Variety Goods again, Clarissa decided as she began picking up the tea things.

  SEVEN

  February 4, 1833

  “Listen,” Leo said as he and Anders rode down Rotten Row early the next morning. “I’m sorry about what I said yesterday, about Georgina and Maris.”

  “It’s not me you should be apologizing to,” Anders laughed. “I know my duty, and I’m glad to do it. I was glad to do it when Eleanor came out last year, too. But I think you nearly gave Bain an apoplexy.”

  “He did look rather red, didn’t he? Truly, you don’t even have to dance with them if you don’t wish to. I know how unbearably exuberant they can be, and they’re my sisters.”

  “I don’t mind in the least, Leo. But your mother must understand that I’m not looking for a mere slip of a girl as a bride, and neither is Bain. There are plenty of eligible young men out there, titled or not. I’m...well, I’m too old for your sisters. Even Eleanor’s a little young for me, and she must be nearly twenty.”

  “I like that!” Leo cried. “You’re three months older than I am, that’s all, and I hardly consider myself decrepit.”