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

by Abigail Agar

  Lord Linfield felt his heart stabbed with apprehension. Had he misread the cues? But of course, he hadn’t. Lady Elizabeth was simply too stuck in waves of sadness, telling herself the story of her past over and over again.

  “I know it’s what you want, as well,” Lord Linfield said, his voice growing increasingly insistent.

  “I apologise, Lord Linfield, but I can’t imagine how you would know anything about me,” Lady Elizabeth said. There was now harshness to her eyes. She was closing up on him, making it so he couldn’t read her as well. He’d done this. He’d overstepped.

  But now, he felt a strange wave of anger. For why couldn’t she accept that this was real, between them? Whatever it was. Why couldn’t they explore it?

  “Lady Elizabeth, my mother would be incredibly grateful to meet you. A brilliant mind. A brilliant writer. A woman I could …” Lord Linfield trailed off, sensing he was falling off the deep end.

  “You know I can’t possibly do that,” Lady Elizabeth said, her voice growing hard.

  Lord Linfield spat the words before he could rein them back in. “Lady Elizabeth, it’s clear to me that you’re living in the past. And it’s been years and years. I hadn’t a clue of your situation, and I’m at the very centre of this Society you so detest.” He paused, watching as her eyes glittered with rage. “It’s simply that you don’t have to live with such regret any longer …”

  “Goodbye, Lord Linfield,” Lady Elizabeth said, her voice gravelly and strange. “I shan’t make a habit of having you to my home.”

  “Lady Elizabeth …” Nathaniel hissed. “You’re being unreasonable. It’s only that I … That I …” He trailed off, knowing that anything else he said—that he cared for her, that he longed to be with her, would be nothing he could take back.

  And he felt strangely terrified of being rebuked, once he said things like that.

  “Goodbye, Lord Linfield,” Lady Elizabeth said once more. “I’ll be in contact regarding the next speech.”

  Again, Lord Linfield bowed his head and turned back towards the rain. Within moments, he heard the click of the door behind him. His boots found traction upon the cobblestones. And he headed back towards the central part of London, where his carriage awaited him.

  The rain pattered atop his head, the eternal London evening custom. But Nathaniel hardly felt it, as his mind stirred with thoughts of what to do next. For he felt, for the first time, that perhaps he understood what love actually was. It filled his heart and his stomach. It forced him to question every other emotion, as this one was far bigger and far more powerful.

  Yet, he knew fully, now, that Lady Elizabeth could never truly be his wife. Lady Elizabeth wouldn’t sit by and become a Countess. She needed to be out in the field, starting homeless shelters for children. She needed to put pen to paper and stream her opinions into the world—for the people certainly deserved them. She’d earned her position in life, as she’d struggled to get there.

  And Lord Linfield wouldn’t be the one to take her away from it. Certainly, Lady Elizabeth wouldn’t allow it.

  Chapter 25

  Lady Elizabeth snapped the door closed behind Lord Linfield, dropped her back across the wood, and slid all the way to the floor so that her legs were extended in front of her and her head drooped forward. Irene swung around in her chair, a bit of scone dribbling from between her lips, and said, “What’s gotten into you?” But the smirk that she immediately flashed told Bess everything she needed to know: that she sensed the immense attraction between Bess and Lord Nathaniel Linfield; and that she knew she’d walked into something more powerful than Bess could fully verbalise.

  Also, although Irene had been prattling on throughout Bess and Lord Linfield’s brief altercation, Bess knew that Irene had heard every word. She had a secret talent.

  “I just simply couldn’t agree to something like that,” Bess murmured. “Meeting his mother? Goodness, it’s all too … too real.”

  “It’s all real, darling,” Irene tittered, trying to sound cheerful. But the cheer fell flat. Outside, the wind rushed against the window panes. Bess felt an eerie chill, thinking of Lord Linfield out on the dark roads, his face lowered to hide from the chill.

  Peter gaped at them both, clearly out of his element. He scuttled towards Bess, reached down and gripped her hand. With as much force as his slender body could muster, he tried to pull her from the ground. The motion was so humorous, so childlike, that Bess immediately fell into a state of giggles. She shuffled to her feet, knocking a tear from her cheek, and gave both Irene and Peter a light shrug.

  “Darling,” Irene sighed. “You know you’re crying, don’t you? Crying and laughing at once. It’s a mighty feat. If the writing doesn’t work out, perhaps you could become an actress?”

  Bess didn’t answer, although she gave Irene a slight eye roll. She sauntered back to the table and perched on the edge of the chair beside Irene, her head swimming with Lord Linfield’s words. Irene ordinarily knew what to say to calm down her racing heart, but it seemed that even she was at a loss, at this point.

  Bess decided to fill the silence with the events of the day. That was what one did during times of confusion, right? Just recount stories. It’s how people forced themselves through life.

  “We took him to the shelter,” Bess finally offered, her voice like a string. “He really took to the children. I think … I think he finally understands why the Judgement of Death Act is so important to me.”

  Irene pursed her lips. Peter reached for the French dictionary on the counter and began to flip through it, perhaps trying to look as though he wasn’t listening.

  “So that means you’ve told him absolutely everything,” Irene said. “Everything about Conner. Everything about your past.”

  “I did,” Bess whispered.

  “And what was his reaction?” Irene asked.

  “He seemed to understand. He seemed to have more empathy than most other men,” Bess whispered. “You should have seen the way he looked at me. He looked at me with, well. With more compassion than Conner ever did. He looked at me like he actually saw who I was …”

  “And why shouldn’t he?” Irene uttered, stretching out her face into a wide grin. “He’s spent countless hours with your words. He knows your mind better than most others. Only four or five people know that you’re the writer L.B. on this planet, and he’s one of them, Bess.”

  “Yes, but what does that mean?” Bess asked. Her face scrunched up slightly. She stood up from her chair once more and began to pace near the fire. It crackled and spit, casting ashy bits of wood to the edges of the hearth. “What does it mean that he knows me? I can’t possibly be his wife. No matter how many times that thought has bubbled up in my mind, I know it cannot be so.”

  “And why not?” Irene asked, tilting her head. “It’s not as though he would put you in a corner.” She splayed her hands across the essay Bess had written, arching her brow. “This text, Bess … I’ve only just begun reading it, and I already sense its importance. It deserves space in The Rising Sun. It deserves time spent arguing over your opinions and texts. It deserves serious thought by the people of this country. You’re the person who spawned this. And you’re not the sort to allow someone like Lord Linfield to stick you in a Countess position, to live out the rest of your days within the bounds of Society.”

  “How am I supposed to translate that to Lord Linfield?” Bess stammered. Her cheeks were enflamed. Everything in the room felt too hot. Even her neckline seemed to scrunch around her neck, making it difficult to breathe. “Just because I see this—this impossible look in his eyes, doesn’t mean he wishes to make any sort of leap with me. Just because I sense this beautiful future before us, doesn’t mean …”

  Bess scowled, her mind leaping back to those gorgeous first months with Conner, when she’d felt protected, charged, fully open for a future with him. She’d imagined the babies she would birth with him, the long, cosy nights in the marriage bed, the sicknesses and the bickering a
nd the forgiveness, always returned to.

  “I always fall into a daydream. And perhaps that daydream doesn’t have any backbone in reality,” Bess murmured.

  “Yes, but you won’t know where you stand unless you try.” Irene sighed.

  Outside, the wind whipped against their little shack. A horse let out a wild whinny. The world seemed strangely sinister and darker than normal. It was certainly a tapestry Bess didn’t long to join. She allowed her shoulders to fall. “It’s just been such a difficult time,” she whispered. “And I don’t imagine it will ever get easier. Not with Lord Linfield. And certainly not without him.”

  Peter spun towards the far end of the room, drawing out a bottle of wine from the lower cabinet. He poured both Irene and Bess a glass with a quivering arm. He placed the cups before them and excused himself, his eyes looking injured and fatigued. Bess placed her hand upon his bony shoulder, recognising she was making the boy uncomfortable.

  “You’re excused for the night,” she said. “You can run up to my room, if you like, to read or study your texts.”

  Peter eyed his own bed, just to the side of the kitchen. But he nodded, recognising that this night was different. Bess and Irene needed to hammer out details, emotions, discuss writing and emotion and the passage of time. He scampered towards the steps, giving Bess a final, burning gaze, before hobbling up to the second floor.

  “That boy would do anything for you, you know,” Irene said, her voice low.

  “And I him,” Bess offered.

  The women faced off for a moment. Bess fell against the counter, sipping her wine.

  “This writing, Bess …” Irene continued. “You deserve recognition for it.” Again, she stretched her fingers over Bess’ essay. “There’s no reason, now, why you shouldn’t list your own name beneath the title. Lady Elizabeth Byrd. A woman with one of the most marvellous brains I’ve ever encountered. A woman who rises up from the flames of her own life and builds a brand new and better one in its place.”

  Irene paused for a long moment, perhaps trying to make Bess sit with this potential for a moment. “Please, think about it,” she murmured. “If everything had worked out with Conner, with your father, then you would be a wife somewhere. Probably a mother. You wouldn’t have a single moment to yourself, and that brain of yours would be wasted. And for what? To extend the line of that horrendous man, Conner Graves?”

  “So you just expect me to suddenly list myself as a writer? To suddenly declare that I’ve been L.B. all along?” Bess stammered. “I’ve worked hard to hide myself away. Don’t you know that each time I run into those women, our old friends—the debutantes of old, they belittle me? They still wish me dead. They would have rather I hung up there, alongside Conner, than keep living.”

  Irene’s nostrils flared. “If that’s true, then they’re far more evil than I initially suspected. In my eyes, they’re just idiots. Simply idiots. And you have so much to offer.”

  Bess couldn’t comprehend what Irene was asking her to do. Face the world that had rebuked her? Ask them to respect her mind and her voice?

  ‘It’s taken every single ounce of strength in me to keep going. And maybe this is the best I can do,” Bess murmured.

  “That’s ridiculous, and you know it,” Irene said. “And, if I can speak out of turn, since you began this arrangement with Lord Linfield, you’ve come out of your cage a bit more. You’ve allowed yourself to live, to grow, to think bigger thoughts. You’ve taken risks. You’re more like the Bess I always thought you were before Conner. Why wouldn’t you want to be her? Why wouldn’t you want to be honest with the world and be her all the time, in public life?”

  Bess pressed her lips together. She hadn’t a proper response to Irene. To rebuke what Irene said would be a lie, as Bess, too sensed she was far more like “herself” since she’d begun writing speeches for Lord Linfield.

  “I don’t know if you’re in love with him.” Irene sighed. “But I know that you’re slowly falling back in love with yourself. And that’s all I’ve ever wanted to see.”

  Irene shot up from her chair, gathering up the pages of Bess’ essay. She arched her brow, giving Bess a funny smirk. “Darling, I have to head to my study and read the rest of your work. I hope you’ll give real thought to what I said.”

  “And do what?” Bess demanded. “Go and meet Lord Linfield’s mother? Put myself at the mercy of Society once more?”

  Irene spun towards the steps. Her voice slowly disappeared as she moved away. “You’ll know what’s right, Bess. I know you will. I just hope you don’t wait too long to make a move. As I said, this is the only life you have. It’s not over yet. Don’t give Conner so much power that he buries you along with him.”

  Irene’s words spun through Bess’ head, leaving her to toss and turn throughout the night. When she awoke on Sunday morning, she walked like a ghost through the kitchen and study, realising both Irene and Peter had stepped out. It was just past nine in the morning, and Bess felt that if she sat in her home waiting for something to happen, she might go stir crazy.

  Bess dressed quickly, donning her hat and stabbing her tiny feet into her boots. Within minutes, she was rushing down the road, taking the familiar route to the London cemetery. It was a path she took every two months or so, a path she walked dutifully, her eyes to the ground. En route, she stopped at the flower shop, purchasing mums. She found it difficult to meet the flower shop owner’s eyes during this process, as she knew she would find only pity reflected back. She wasn’t entirely sure if she wanted that pity, or if she even deserved it. For, did she truly love Conner any longer? Did she still relate to that past?

  Bess walked up the slight hill towards the cemetery steps. She forced her shoulders back, lifted her chin. Her hands were bone-cold around the base of the mums. She cursed herself for forgetting her gloves, but decided to endure the pain. She hobbled through the cemetery, ducking around mighty stones and reading the familiar names. They were men and women she would never meet, would never know. Yet, because she’d visited Conner’s grave so frequently, she felt in-tune with her own projected ideas of these people. Gregory Miller, who’d died twenty years before she’d even been born. Timothy Eliphant, who’d passed on when she’d been twelve years old. His wife had died just three months later, as had their apparent daughter, Penelope. Bess’ heart felt squeezed at this thought. Who had had to bury that entire family? Had they left anyone behind?

  Conner’s grave was nothing special. There hadn’t been a reason to purchase anything nice, given the fact that he’d been hung at the gallows and owed countless high-society folk more than one hundred thousand pounds. The stone was simplistic, flat-faced. CONNER GARVEY. Bess traced her fingers across his name, along with the year of his death. 1813. That date seemed impossibly long ago.

  “Conner,” Bess murmured, her eyes dancing around the graveyard to ensure that nobody else was there. “Conner, I know you never really knew me. I know you never truly cared for me, beyond what I could deliver you. You never knew my mind, and you certainly never knew my heart. In my foolish, idiotic way, I loved you. I almost wish I could take it back. But I suppose it doesn’t matter, now.

  “It’s the shame I felt, after your death, that’s more or less destroyed my life,” Bess continued. “But I’m wondering, now, if that shame is something I’ve constructed for myself. Perhaps it’s something I can fight. Perhaps it’s growing too heavy, too old. Perhaps it no longer matches who I want to be.”

  In the distance, a black dog ran out between two gravestones. The dog paused, looking frozen as it stared at Bess, and Bess stared back. Bess rose up from the grave, her shoulders quaking with shivers. Once, she’d heard of a childhood friend being attacked by a wild dog in the midst of London. The dog had torn open her arm, staining her dress and leaving a permanent scar.

  A dog in a graveyard. It felt like a kind of omen. A warning.

  But within moments, the dog swung around and scampered away, leaving Bess with the gravestone, wit
h her ex-fiance, and her memories.