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

by Abigail Agar

  Against any good judgement, he continued to speak. But his words were ill-formed, and it was clear that he had only a small inkling of what the Tory party represented. Around Bess, people began to scoff to themselves and their friends, muttering that the man was only half the man his father had been.

  The speech lasted only a few more minutes before John Lodgeman nearly pulled the poor Nathaniel Linfield from the stage and began a speech all his own. He hoped to maintain his Parliamentary seat, it seemed, and wanted to clear the air—ensure that the people knew he still had his wits about him. Behind him, Nathaniel Linfield remained, still glaring at the various audience members who’d jeered at him. His eyes glittered with anger. Bess marvelled that had John Lodgeman not been between them, there might have been a fight.

  The crowd broke up after that, leaving Bess to hustle back to her desk at the paper. As she marched along the cobblestones, she sneaked her pad of paper into her bag and adjusted her hat. As the crowd dissipated, however, she heard her name. She spun her head so fast, her hat nearly flung to the ground. With her fingers gripping at the brim, she blinked into the glossy eyes of Marvin, who looked at her, incredulous.

  “My goodness, Bess,” he said, his thick eyebrow rising high. “What on earth are you doing all the way over here? I don’t suppose Irene’s sent you on an errand?”

  Bess was always a quick thinker, articulate and sharp. She flashed Marvin a sure smile and felt a lie rise to her tongue. “Oh goodness, she did. I was just marching past the political speeches and hung back for a moment. Curiosity got the better of me, you know.”

  “Oh, well. Certainly. Although I can’t imagine that you could make sense of it,” Marvin said. He fell into step beside her, falling into his own monologue. “You know, that man. Lord Linfield. I knew his father quite well. And he seems to be of the same ilk. Perhaps you didn’t follow his father’s work with the Tories, but I must tell you …”

  Bess marvelled at the idiocy with which Marvin spoke, now. She allowed him the occasional, “Oh, is that so?” and “My goodness, thank you for pointing that out for me!” as they marched back to the paper. But mostly, she was living in a closet in her own mind, lost in thought. She was already writing and re-writing the first few paragraphs of her essay, feeling her creativity flowing through her. It felt like no time at all before they arrived back at the paper offices. She said a final goodbye to Marvin, as he hunkered back to his desk.

  To her, he called back, “Good to teach you a bit of something today, Bess. I dare say it’s a rarity to lend a bit of my craft to someone such as yourself. I hope it wasn’t too difficult for you.”

  Bess just grinned, turning her eyes toward Irene. Irene smirked at her, arching her brow. They shared this secret, a secret that gave them power over this arrogant man. That was all Bess truly needed in this world. Especially after everything that had happened. She just needed a personal bit of power; no recognition. She wanted nobody to know her name.

  For, several years before—only months before she was meant to marry Conner Garvey, her name had been on the lips of so many, many people throughout London. The scandal had nearly destroyed her. “Lady Elizabeth Byrd, don’t you know. What a pity it would be to be her! I dare say, the poor thing. She didn’t see it coming, did she? The moment she introduced her fiancé to her father, she should have seen the world swallowing her up. My, my. What a pity! What a horrible pity.”

  But she was stronger now, assured in her singledom. She was a writer, a journalist—a woman of fine opinions and beautiful words. She didn’t need anyone else but herself. And with her pen atop her paper, she began to write up her political opinion piece, signing the essay with a false name—L.B.

  L.B. was regarded as nobody except the words on the page. L.B. hadn’t nearly married an incredible con artist; L.B.’s father hadn’t wronged her and joined forces with that evil man. No. L.B. was only a writer, an intellect. Nothing more.

  Chapter 4

  Lord Linfield arrived home the evening after his first speech, feeling deflated and strange—as if his skin was a bit too tight on his body. He entered the foyer and removed his coat, turning his eyes towards the staircase. How he wished he could escape up it, dive back into his father’s study. Anything in the world not to face his mother that evening.

  But he heard her from the sitting room, calling his name. “Nathaniel!” she chirped.

  Nathaniel drew his shoulders back, hoping he looked more confident than he felt. He sauntered down the hallway, his head still full with the jeers from the men in the crowd. His hands had turned to fists; he’d felt his heart thumping in his throat. He’d yearned to toss his own insults back at them, but knew, beyond anything, that such behaviour would completely taint his political career. It would taint it even more than his current ability to give speeches—or lack of ability, that was.

  Lady Eloise was seated in her reading chair, a book splayed across her lap. She gave Nathaniel a slight grin, creating soft creases around her mouth. “Come sit with me, son. Before dinner.”

  Nathaniel couldn’t imagine anything more horrific than having to sit with his mother and explain just how wretched his first political speech had been. He knew what the answer would be: that it was simply not Nathaniel’s route to become this politician. “Your father was a wonderful orator. And it’s just not your future, Nathaniel. It’s time to return to courting. We’ll find you a woman that suits. I know it.”

  Of course, his mother hadn’t uttered those words, not truly. But Nathaniel could feel the sentiment echoing in the air around them. He took a step back, tilting his head. “Mother, I simply can’t bear to remain indoors this evening,” he said. “I think I’ll head out to the woods with Bernard.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Lady Eloise said. “It’s nearly dark. And dinner’s almost prepared …”

  “I’m simply not hungry, Mother,” Nathaniel said. “I apologise.”

  “Nathaniel!” his mother cried. She burst up from her chair, moving towards him. Already, Nathaniel had begun to amble back down the hallway, his feet itching to don his boots and head out of the house. “Nathaniel, now, I’ve waited here all day to hear what became of your speech. You really won’t give an old woman the report?”

  “Perhaps another time, Mother,” Nathaniel said, pausing in the centre of the hall. “Perhaps another time.”

  His mother seemed to recognise that she couldn’t push the issue. She remained in the doorway, her eyes dark and studying him. Nathaniel hurried up the steps, taking long strides towards his bedroom and diving into the wardrobe, finding his sportsman clothes. Within minutes, he was trudging back towards the side door—his shoulders back and his heart racing. If he waited another moment more in that stuffy house, he knew he would go wild with anxiety.

  Lord Linfield collected his dog, Barney, from the stables and then stretched his legs towards the yonder woods, where he followed his familiar path towards a thin stream. Barney shuffled along at his side, his nose towards the ground and his paws dipping into the mud. Lord Linfield dropped his hand along his dog’s head, feeling almost absent-minded. Despite the chill of the air around him and the twinkling stars above, he still felt stuck in fear and anger at his horrific speech-making. He felt that the world was stirring around him, calling him a fool.

  Worst of all, he felt that he’d scorned his father’s good name.

  At the creek, he paused, turning his attention back to his dog. He dropped to a squat, drawing his hands around his dog’s face and scrubbing his throat. The dog panted with pleasure, allowing his tongue to fall from his lips.

  “My name is Lord Nathaniel Linfield,” Nathaniel murmured to himself and to Barney. “And I’m running for Parliament.”

  Even to his own ears, he sounded lacklustre and idiotic. He knew he wasn’t—knew, in fact, that he was more well-versed on the topic of politics than most of his peers. He truly did have the political mind of his father and had spent the majority of his teenage years arguing with his father,
learning from him. HIs mother had often slammed her sitting room door angrily, telling them that they should take their affairs up to Parliament. “You’re just like your father,” she’d scoffed—not unkindly, although with irritation.

  Lord Linfield didn’t return to his home until he knew his mother would be latched up in her bedroom, not apt to come back down the hall to pester him. For dinner, he scrounged up a few rolls and a bit of cheese and meat, deciding to hole up in his father’s study and try to write a better speech—or at least the kind of speech that wouldn’t cause him to flub his lips and stutter. But as he nibbled at his roll, his mind raced. He felt it nearly impossible to draw out his thoughts properly and craft them into a cohesive speech.

  Frustrated, he put himself to bed, resolving that he would try again in the morning. He hadn’t another choice. He couldn’t return to his old life of debutantes, just following the trajectory of many other men his age. He wanted his life to mean something, as his father’s had.

  The following day, the thick grey clouds above London parted, delivering a strange sunlight that glimmered over the puddles and cobblestones. Lord Linfield journeyed to the centre of London, with plans to meet with John Lodgeman regarding his run for Parliament. The man had hardly been able to look him in the eyes after Nathaniel’s “speech.” Rather, he’d mumbled something like, “You’re lucky you’re good looking. Better looking than your father, even. That will go far.”

  The words had felt like a smack across his face.

  A half-hour away from his appointment with John, Nathaniel paused at a newspaper boy. The boy flapped his newspapers through the air as if they were flags, flashing them through the sunlight. Nathaniel reached into his pocket, drawing out a coin, which he then flipped into the boy’s cup with a fluid motion. The boy smacked a paper into his palm, saying, “Thank ye sir, have ye a pleasant day!” He revealed rotting teeth, all of them brown, despite the boy’s age of perhaps eight or nine.

  Lord Linfield walked towards a little corner bar, where he ordered a coffee and parted the newspaper to the politics section, standing outside near a high table. Immediately, he noted that there were two articles regarding his speech the previous day. One of them—by a man named Marvin Tartman—explained his excitement regarding Lord Linfield’s run for Parliament. But the article was largely regarding Marvin’s appreciation for Lord Linfield’s father and said nothing of Lord Linfield’s speech itself.

  For a moment, Lord Linfield was grateful. Perhaps people like Marvin would allow Lord Linfield a bit of extra time to generate his political “voice.”

  Unfortunately, The Rising Sun had also published a counter to Marvin’s article. This was a rarity, as, Lord Linfield knew, The Rising Sun usually only posted a single opinion. He drew his face closer to the crinkling paper, feeling sweat begin to pool along his neck.

  The article started out pleasant enough. The author introduced himself as “L.B.,” a political essayist, new to The Rising Sun. The writing was sharp and clever and witty, incredibly unlike the rather sloppy writing of Marvin in the column above.

  “I followed the political career of Lord Linfield’s father, Lord Walter, for many years—as did the Tories and non-Tories of our little haven, here in London,” the essay said. “The man was a remarkable orator, with a clear, concise message, which always assured and ignited passion in his constituents. I arrived, like many other journalists, to see Lord Linfield for the very first time—assuming that he would be similar in both stature and speech to his dearly departed father. However, I can tell you two things for certain: Lord Nathanial is a brilliant-looking man, handsome in the finest order and far better looking than his father—God rest his soul. And the second thing I can affirm to you, now, is that Lord Linfield seems to lack every single orator skill his father had. I do not know if there’s a single logical thought back in that man’s head. I can only tell you that he didn’t reveal himself to be anything remarkable …”

  Lord Linfield flung the paper to the ground to the side of the high table, his heart hammering and his hands drawing into fists. What was this “L.B.” playing at? What in the world did he expect? Of course, Lord Linfield wouldn’t deliver the sort of speeches his father had, his first time up. And now, this L.B. had decided to write his first political essay for The Rising Sun—his first ever!—to tear through Lord Linfield, belittle him. Make him look every bit an idiot.

  A horse stumbled across the cobblestones, nearly tearing through the newspaper on the ground. Nathaniel frowned at both the horse and his rider before darting back down the road—his cloak swirling out behind him. He would be five minutes late to his lunch with John Lodgeman, all because of this wretched article. His palms sweat; anger made his throat clench tight.

  When he reached the restaurant, his face was pale. John Lodgeman had The Rising Sun spread out on the table before him. He sipped at a beer, and his eyes looked up at Lord Linfield—oddly hollow. He tapped the paper, flicking it.

  “If only you could speak like this L.B. can write, hey?” he began.

  This was possibly the worst thing John could have said. Nathaniel struck his hand out to a passing waiter, demanding a beer and a menu. The waiter returned moments later looking strained and set the beer atop the table. Seconds later, Nathaniel had already downed half of it, filling his empty belly with the bubbly liquid.

  “Don’t be so hard on yourself,” John said, peering at Nathaniel from behind his thick glasses. “These political writers, they always have something to say.”

  “L.B. makes me look like the worst kind of idiot. Like merely a shadow of my father,” Nathaniel blurted. “I can’t possibly let him get away with this. Why didn’t they just print the one by Marvin? Marvin seems to get it.”

  “Ha. This guy? I used to know him,” John said. He folded the paper back together, dropping it to the side of the table. “He’s an imbecile, you know. Most people in the political community know that he’ll simply say the easiest thing, just to please whoever’s around. I’m surprised The Rising Sun hasn’t fired him. In fact, it seems they’re trying to push him out, with the appearance of this L.B.”

  “Well, that’s ridiculous,” Nathaniel sighed.

  John leaned across the table, arching his brow. “You know, it really was difficult to watch.”

  “I know, I know!” Nathaniel said, his eyes burning with anger. “It’s not as though I couldn’t feel the awkwardness. I’m avoiding my mother at all costs, knowing she’s about to suggest I head back to the world of courting. Seems my only real purpose on this planet, for her, is to court and marry and procreate.” He sat back, guzzling the rest of his beer.

  John leaned back in his chair, drawing his arms across his chest. He clucked his tongue, which made his moustache twitch slightly.

  “What?” Nathaniel demanded. “I have to tell you, John. I really cannot stand to do anything but this. I believe this is my calling, my passion. It’s just these speeches. And I absolutely must represent myself well.”

  “Don’t be foolish. I’m on your side,” John said, his voice lowering. His eyes turned around the crowded restaurant before centring back on Nathaniel. “I was wondering if you’ve considered hiring someone for a bit of help.”

  “A bit of help? What on earth are you talking about?” Nathaniel asked.

  John shrugged. “You might want to consider hiring a speech writer. Just someone to get you started. You haven’t done much public speaking before. And you have nowhere to go but up, my son.”

  The men fell to other topics after that, for which Nathaniel was incredibly grateful. He fell into an easy banter with John, one that reminded him a bit of his conversations with his father, before his death. John didn’t often bring up Nathaniel’s father as the topic appeared to pain him. But at the end, when they dotted their mouths with napkins and sucked the very last of their beers, John mentioned that he really did think Nathaniel’s father would be proud of his decision to run.

  “Politics were his life, Nathaniel. And
if you find a proper way to represent him and carry on his work, then, in a sense, those highwaymen didn’t rip him from this earth. In many ways, he will move through you. And as we’ll all pass on from this earth, one way or the other, perhaps it’s better that you make use of your time in this manner. I can’t imagine it another way.”