The Secret Identity of the Lord's Aide: A Historical Regency Romance Book

by Abigail Agar

  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.”

  He’d dropped the words, and now, he couldn’t take them back. He blinked at the women, waiting for some kind of response. Silence hung heavy in the dining room. In the midst of it, one of the kitchen maids sprung through the door, holding onto a large platter of turkey. Steam erupted from the dead bird, curling towards the ceiling. She dropped it in the centre of the table before offering a slice to each of the members of the table. Each declined. When she retreated, Lady Eloise turned her attention back to her son.

  And, to Nathaniel’s surprise, she spoke with a flickering smile.

  “Darling, I haven’t heard you say this before. How long have you been considering such a thing?” she asked.

  “For quite some time,” Nathaniel lied. He felt awash with the pleasant feeling that although they were shocked, each woman regarded him with intrigue, impressed. “I know he left this world and cannot continue to do his fine work. The work he set out to do,” Nathaniel continued. “And as I’m his only son, it’s up to me to carry on for him. I know it’s the right thing to do.”

  Lady Eloise bowed her head. She dotted her napkin just left of her eye as if retrieving a tear before it could muss up her make-up. Lady Theresa tapped her palms together, lending very, very quiet applause.

  “My goodness, Nathaniel,” she tittered. “I didn’t imagine I would be privy to such information, straight from your lips this evening. What a remarkable achievement, and the perfect way to honour your father.” She paused, her eyes slipping from Nathaniel’s, back toward his mother’s. It was clear she was trying to deduce what was meant to happen next.

  “Yes, well. I shan’t waste another moment,” Nathaniel said. He stood from his chair, walking towards the door.

  His mother gaped at him, aghast. He knew that if Lady Theresa and Lady Sarah weren’t present, she would exclaim to him to sit back down that very instant. But he was at the mercy of his very sudden, very sure decision. He couldn’t possibly toil another season through the quadrilles and the debutantes and the tiring conversation. It was all so meaningless, so void of any life and colour. Memory of his father’s speeches had ignited a fire in his belly. And he felt charged with adrenaline to get his campaign going.

  He just hadn’t any idea of where or how to start.

  That night, Lord Linfield sat at the desk of his father’s study, staring down at an incredibly bright, still-blank piece of paper, his quill in his hand. He’d decided to write a letter to his father’s most-trusted friend and ally in the Tories, John Lodgeman, who himself worked in Parliament. He remembered long nights, his father and Lord John sitting up, arguing, their words cutting out through the black air. They’d quarrelled, only with regard to the best ways to find progress. Lord Linfield knew that John was his father’s most trusted ally. “That’s simply why we bicker. We see everything eye to eye and care about everything more than anyone else. We have to challenge one another,” his father had told him once.

  He wrote the leader, explaining his decision, and then sealed it with wax, using his family’s seal. Then, Lord Linfield sat back in his chair, the letter poised for an early-morning delivery the following day, and gazed out his window. He remembered the dismal look Lady Theresa had given her cousin during the moments after he’d announced his run for Parliament and couldn’t help feeling a grin stretch across his face. No, he hadn’t wanted to make that girl feel hopeless in the wake of her singledom, of course not. He simply thought it was ridiculous that he could ever fill the hole of “husband” or “father” for anyone as, well, simple as Lady Theresa.

  He was meant for something else. At least, that’s what he’d always assumed. Now, he had to prove that fact to himself. He had a long road to go.

  Chapter 3

  When Bess arrived back from the shelter the following afternoon, Irene was waiting. Bess hobbled forward, gasping. Between the shelter and her work at the paper, her time was stretched thin.

  “It’s all work and no play with you, isn’t it, Bess?” Irene sighed. “Regardless, I wanted to discuss something with you. You know Marvin, don’t you? Our political writer?”

  Bess nodded, tilting her head. The bumbling man had written a fair share of articles about the various political speeches conducted throughout London in the previous weeks. Bess herself had been the one to edit them, as Irene was in over her head with The Rising Sun’s wide selection of output. Bess herself had seen Irene burst into tears several times, throughout the season—an act of emotion that Irene would have never allowed anyone else on The Rising Sun staff to see.

  Currently, Bess was only a secretary, in title, but often her efforts flickered over to the writing and editing side. Beyond Irene, no one else at the paper was a writer; yet Irene had earned her position and her respect, as her father had started the paper nearly 20 years before and she’d grown up in the offices. People didn’t necessarily look to Bess with respect. Even the political writer, Marvin, had been thrilled at his recent political essays, many of which Bess had edited herself. When he’d been told that Bess had been the writer behind the edits, he’d scoffed, saying that no—surely the reason for the essays’ brilliance lay in his increased awareness of the political landscape. Surely, it couldn’t be all for the help of some little know-nothing, wanna-be writer. Surely.

  “Well, Marvin’s meant to head-up a new speech for a man poised to head to Parliament,” Irene said. She reached for her gloves, her face becoming stoic and firm as the day crept on. She was no longer the screeching girl, discovering flowers at the door. “However, I haven’t been incredibly thrilled with his output as of late.”

  Bess felt her stomach tighten with apprehension. She waited, her eyes burning towards her friend and ally and, in this case, boss.

  “I can’t very well take him off the case at this point,” Irene continued. “But I’d like you to attend the event, as well. If possible, perhaps you can write a different spin on the speech. Perhaps give a different dimension to what Marvin will write.”

  Bess nearly fell against the countertop wit
h emotion. She nodded her head, trying to remain upright. Irene’s lips flickered as if she was straining not to smile. Of course, she had to know just how immense this was for someone like Bess.

  “I would very much appreciate that, Irene,” Bess said, trying to ensure her voice didn’t shake as she spoke. Since she’d been a girl, she’d so yearned to be published, but had assumed it to be an act meant only for a man. That’s why Irene had been such a striking character to her when she’d met her at the age of 12. Already, at that time, Irene had spoken of her life with career in mind, rather than whatever male figure would fill her role as “husband.”

  “Good.” Irene searched her, drawing her black, wide-brim hat atop her head and reaching for her umbrella. “Will you wish to write under your own name, Bess?”

  Immediately, the thought of having her own name on the newspaper—Lady Elizabeth Byrd, the scorned and embarrassed ex-fiancé of the now-deceased Connor Garvey and the daughter of the runaway Thomas Byrd—filled her with apprehension. Bess shook her head, the motion almost violent, and then stuttered. “I’ll come up with some sort of pen name, if that’s all right for you.”

  Nearly an hour later, the women, both 29 years old, fell into easy step as they marched up the last bit of cobblestone to the offices of The Rising Sun. Upon entering, Bess crept back towards her ordinary seat as secretary, peering out across the office at the other male writers—many of whom were balding, their heads shining in the grey light spewing in from the windows. Irene had informed her that the political speech began at one in the afternoon, which meant she would have to conduct a great deal more of her secretarial duties than she was accustomed to in the morning, so that she wouldn’t fall far behind. It was a pity, too, as Bess longed to familiarise herself with the man running for the Parliamentary seat—a man named Lord Nathaniel Linfield, whose father had been a renowned Tory prior to his death, a murder by highwaymen.

  From her desk, Bess could hear Marvin complaining about the upcoming speech, his voice high-pitched and straining. “The man’s clearly just a shadow of his father. Doesn’t seem to have a single thought outside what his father put in his head. I mean, honestly, these rich men. They think they can just decide upon a position and land in it, without making the hard commitment that their fathers were forced to …”

  Nobody seemed keen to answer Marvin, but Bess inserted this knowledge into her own brain—eager to see what her own opinion would be, after the speech. And just after 12:30, she made heavy eye contact with Irene, who was seated in her office, her quill toiling over a white sheet of paper, before nodding and rising from her desk chair. It was time to go.

  Bess donned her hat and marched from The Rising Sun office. Once outside, London seemed more chaotic than ordinary—its carriages bumbling past; its women chattering with wild, flashing hands; its men smoking tightly-rolled cigarettes and grunting, stretching long legs across the slippery cobblestones. Bess joined the chaos, walking towards the square in which the political speech was meant to take place. Everything within her buzzed with excitement. With every step, she reminded herself that this life—one of a journalist, of a real, opinionated writer, was the one she was always meant to have.

  Of course, it had been a difficult road, prior to this. The thought of it passed through Beth like a shadow, as if she could never go more than an hour or two without reminding herself of the past.

  She’d been a girl much like the others her age—oh, she could list their names, could even remember the way they’d laughed and bantered together as they’d gone through the courting season, several years before. There’d been Lady Ellen and Lady Rachel, Lady Tatiana and Lady Penelope. They’d flounced one another’s dresses, curled one another’s curls. They’d giggled with one another, gossiped. Of course, Bess had always felt she had a “private” side of herself, one involved with books and writing and intellect. But at the time, she’d set that all to the side, with her sights on creating a world with a husband, with crafting a good pair. It was simply what was “done.” And she was willing to do anything for love.

  She’d been such a silly woman, back then. And when Connor Garvey had asked her to dance, bowed deep—casting his dark blue eyes towards hers—she’d fallen into him, emotionally, mentally. As they’d danced their first dance, her mind had skipped ahead the next five, ten, fifteen years. She could imagine him by her side.

  Of course, she hadn’t imagined what would happen next.

  Bess spotted the crowd in front of the speech platform and darted down the cobblestone road, not wanting to be late. Marvin had left for the speech a bit before her, and she was anxious, her eyes stirring through the crowd to ensure that she didn’t stand anywhere near him. Marvin was competitive, an anxious, snivelling guy. She could imagine the brash way he would sneer at her, if he spotted her: “How dare you think that you could write like me?”

  Bess crept towards the front of the crowd, reaching into her bag to draw out her notebook. Around her, people crowded, tittering about the upcoming event. “You know, I really did love his father,” one man blurted, stretching his fingers across his moustache. “I have to assume the son will have similar politics, although, of course, it’s never clear.”

  Bess’s eyes turned towards the stage, where a handsome man was scanning a piece of crumpled paper. He was rather tall—perhaps half a foot over six feet, with blond hair that whisked past his ears and curled lightly. His shoulders were broad; his arms muscular. He looked nothing like the other, bumbling politicians that Bess was accustomed to seeing, and seemed almost as though he’d rather be far away from the city, walking alone. His eyes turned towards the edge of the stage, where a short, squat man gestured to him. It was time for him to go on.

  The squat man tapped towards the centre of the stage, raising his arms. The crowd’s wild tittering, so much like birds, gradually drew to a halt. Silence formed over them, creating a kind of bubble. Then, the squat man spoke.

  “Greetings!” he called. “Good afternoon to each and every one of you. As many of you know, when Lord Nathaniel Linfield announced to me his plans to run for Parliament, I was absolutely thrilled. HIs father, God rest his soul, was a remarkable friend of mine. And I know for a fact he’s passed along a brilliant mind to his son. Now, without further ado. Lord Nathanial Linfield …”

  The squat man—who, Bess discovered later, was the Tory-member John Lodgeman—began to clap, leading the rest of the crowd to follow suit. Then, Lord Linfield sauntered to the front of the stage, sliding his crumpled paper across the podium. He cleared his throat, drawing his eyes towards the crowd. The clapping gave a final roar before completely falling away. Then, there was only silence. It was almost like a vacuum. Bess could hear nothing. All eyes were upon Lord Linfield, expectant. Everything hinged on him.

  Finally, the man opened his lips. He addressed the crowd, his voice a bit too loud, a bit too brash. It was already clear that Nathaniel hadn’t made many speeches in his life. Immediately, Bess cringed.

  “Greetings,” he began. “Many of you, um, many of you are accustomed to hearing my father speak. Of course, he’s been gone these past few years. Leaving me with a kind of—um. I don’t know. He was a brilliant politician, and I always looked up to him. He told the best stories …” Lord Linfield trailed off, turning his eyes towards the ground.

  Bess waited, her eyebrows stitching together. Did this man even have a single concept of what politics were? Did he know that he had to have a set opinion regarding the future of the city, of the Tory party, in order to be given a place in Parliament? Around her, people had begun to titter slightly, clearly confused.

  “Anyway,” Nathaniel continued. “I wanted to address the various ways in which, erm, I hope to continue my father’s work.”

  “GET OFF THE STAGE!” someone cried from the far corner of the crowd.

  Bess whirled towards the sound, hoping to catch a glimpse of whoever this person was. But another joined him seconds later. Jeering. Laughing. Bess turned back towards L
ord Linfield, her eyes large. Lord Linfield no longer looked anxious. Instead, he scrunched his speech paper into a ball and glared at the jeering members of the crowd. He looked apt to punch them in the face. Bess’s heart sputtered in her chest. Immediately, she began to take notes—already knowing the kind of essay she might write regarding this man, this impossible politician.