by Brooke, Meg
Anders kept his gaze fixed on the mountain of papers. Somewhere in there was a bill his friend had asked him to read, but it would take some sort of excavating device to find it and right now Anders lacked the motivation for that sort of dig. “I will find it,” he said. “I’ve been meaning to read it all morning.”
“With this sort of organization, I’m amazed your whole study hasn’t fallen down around your ears. I came to invite you to the club, but it looks as though you have your hands full.”
“Indeed,” Anders said. “And now I must find a new secretary on top of everything else.”
“If I had a secretary I might be able to let you borrow him, but, alas, some of us choose not to work quite as hard as you.”
Anders glowered at him.
“Well, I’ll bid you good-day then. Think about coming to Barney’s this evening for cards, would you?”
“I’ll think about it,” Anders promised, though he was certain he would be working. Leo had an enviable ability to flit from one thing to another without getting too committed. Anders had not developed that talent. When he did something, he went all-out, which meant that he had thrown himself into the business of being in the House of Lords with a great deal more dedication than Leo had. But Leo also had a brain that naturally organized and compartmentalized everything, which was something Anders lacked. He needed a secretary to keep everything together. Otherwise, as Leo predicted, his study might just collapse around him.
When Leo had gone, he sat back down behind the desk and lifted one of the piles. Mr. Carlisle had, unfortunately, been too timid to rearrange anything without Anders’s permission, and so the pile had only grown during his tenure. Suddenly Anders felt overwhelmed by the task that lay before him.
“I think I’ll go and have a swim,” he said to no one in particular.
At some point in the history of the family one of the previous Earls of Stowe had had some sort of spinal deformity and had been advised by his physician that daily immersion in water might be beneficial to his health. When Stowe House had been built on the edge of Belgrave Square it had, therefore, been constructed with a strange feature, but one for which Anders was daily grateful. In the cellar, carefully separated from the kitchens, was a swimming pool. It was a long narrow affair that stretched the full length of the house, the water warmed with an ingenious mechanism that diverted heat from the nearby stoves, and Anders had found that it was perfect for working out his frustrations. Now, in the dim light provided by a few candles—for the previous Earl had been much more modest than his descendent and had not had any windows built into the room—Anders stripped and slipped into the cool water. He slid under and swam two full lengths before coming up for air and brushing his shoulder-length hair out of his face. He really ought to have it cut back—it would make swimming much easier, after all. But with its dark color he thought the length gave him a daring, rakish look without his having to devote the time to actual rakish pursuits.
Now Anders dove under again and allowed his mind to wander as he swam, losing track even of the lengths as he mulled over what he should do. He needed a secretary. He could not do without one. In Parliament a secretary not only organized one’s papers and set one’s schedule, they also served as an extra set of eyes and ears. A good secretary could listen to a speech and tell exactly which words should be changed for better effect. A great secretary could mean the difference between success and failure for a member of Parliament. Anders didn’t necessarily need a great secretary—he had only two years’ experience in the House of Lords but so far he had experienced enough success to satisfy him. He did, however, need a warm body capable of managing the myriad things for which Anders himself had not the time or the organizational capacity, especially now when time and organization were of the essence.
Ever since becoming the eleventh Earl of Stowe two years earlier upon the death of his uncle, Anders had tried to live up to the title. His father had been the old earl’s younger brother, but his early death when Anders was only two had meant that Anders had spent little time with his uncle, especially after his mother remarried. In truth, Uncle Frederick had not been very interested in Anders either, or he might have taken the trouble to take his nephew and heir under his wing and guide him through the world that would one day be Anders’s own. As it was, Anders had spent most of his childhood with his mother in Devon and had not been educated in the finer points of the British peerage. He had gone, of course, to Eton and then to Cambridge, but the fine education he had received from those vaunted institutions had done little to prepare him for the wealth and privilege that had instantly been bestowed upon him when Uncle Frederick had died. He had been intimidated at first—in truth, he was still intimidated—by the mighty House of Lords, in which his uncle had made it clear he was expected to take up his seat. But Uncle Frederick had made a grave mistake in neglecting Anders’s education. The Earls of Stowe had always been Tories, but Anders was not. He supposed, when he allowed himself time to think about such trivial hypothetical situations, that if his uncle and not his mother had raised him, things might have turned out differently. But in that tiny village in Devon, Anders had had a far more liberal upbringing than his uncle might have wished, and had chosen to break with the age-old tradition of his line and side with the Whigs instead. He would have imagined Uncle Frederick turning over in his grave if the idea had given him any pleasure, but it did not. He held no grudges against his uncle—though the man had neglected Anders and his mother after the death of his younger brother, he had done nothing malicious or wrong. He had simply chosen to leave well enough alone, for which Anders usually felt grateful. It was only at times like this that he wished he had had more time to learn the ropes of this treacherous world before being thrust upon the stage.
He had met with mild success at least during his first two years in the House of Lords. But now he was no longer the young pup the others had perceived him to be. He had allies. He also had enemies. And he had goals—he had a vision. If that vision was to be achieved, he needed help.
He had done what he guessed was about forty lengths when he noticed a dark figure at the edge of the pool. When he came up for a breath, the figure spoke.
“My Lord.” It was Phelps. Anders put out one hand to stop himself against the edge of the pool and flipped his head back, water spraying satisfyingly over the two men who stood waiting. Phelps didn’t flinch. The newcomer did.
Anders blinked and stared at the young man standing beside his butler. He really was an extraordinary-looking creature. His ill-fitting suit was threadbare and worn, the elbows shiny and the cuffs beginning to fray—or perhaps they had just been poorly hemmed. His shirt, however, was startlingly white, as if it had never been worn before, and his shoes had been shined recently. Despite the fact that he had clearly been wearing the nondescript suit for quite some time, he looked uncomfortable in the clothing—or perhaps he was afraid of water?
It was only then that Anders remembered that he was naked, though the water covered him up to his waist. Phelps, of course, had the wherewithal to be completely unperturbed by his master’s nudity, but the young man must be embarrassed.
“My apologies,” Anders muttered as Phelps handed him a dry towel. He wrapped it around himself as he emerged from the pool. “I am not usually disturbed here.”
Phelps continued to look unruffled. “I must apologise, My Lord. But this young man was most insistent, and I thought, given the circumstances, it would be better for him to see you at once.”
Anders looked the man up and down—or, rather, just down. He was quite small, the top of his head barely level with Anders’s chin. And he could not have been more than twenty-two. What could such an inconsequential looking youth want with him?
The boy cleared his throat. “My name is…is…”
“You do know your own name, don’t you?” Anders demanded, feeling peeved at having his swim interrupted.
“Clarence Ford, My Lord.”
“To wha
t do I owe the pleasure of your visit, Mr. Ford?”
“I…well, perhaps it could wait until you are…until you are not…”
“Oh, for the love of everything holy, Mr. Ford, just spit it out!”
“I understand you are in search of a secretary, My Lord.”
Anders stared at the little man, not quite comprehending. Phelps’s face was a mask of stoic impassivity. If this was a joke, it was being pulled off beautifully. But then, Phelps had never played a joke in his life. He had told Anders as much himself the day they had first met.
“How do you come to understand such a thing?” Anders asked. He glanced quickly at Phelps. “Do we have a gossip in our midst?”
“Oh, no, My Lord,” Mr. Ford said, looking even more terrified than before. “No, I came by the information…well, not quite honestly, but certainly through no fault of anyone in your employ.”
“And I surmise that you are here to offer your services.”
“Such as they are, My Lord.”
Anders raised one eyebrow in a way he knew made him look rather imposing. “Hardly an enthusiastic proposal, Mr. Ford.”
The youth blushed and looked down at his shoes. His hair was not quite blonde, Anders realized—there was a hint of red in his short-cropped locks. He had never seen such a color on a man. Now that he looked carefully he saw that the boy had a thin moustache, too. Perhaps he was proud of the pathetic thing. “I have…lost my previous employer, My Lord, but—”
“Lost? Did you misplace him?”
Mr. Ford’s eyes met his, and Anders could have sworn there were tears in them. “He died, My Lord. But before he did, he was one of the best men in the House of Commons.”
“Commons, eh?”
“Yes, My Lord.”
“And who was this illustrious man?”
“Jonah Martin, My Lord.”
Anders felt a wave of shock. “I knew Jonah Martin. He died rather suddenly, didn’t he? Hit by a carriage?”
“Yes, My Lord. It was quite sudden. So sudden that he did not have time to leave me a reference. However, I assure you I was a good secretary to him. I helped him rise to the position he held when he died. He was quite a prominent member, if you recall.”
“Of course I recall. I dealt with him myself several times.”
“I am aware of that fact, My Lord.”
“I don’t remember ever meeting you.”
“The best secretaries, My Lord, are neither seen nor heard,” Ford said, smiling mischievously. He looked more...charismatic when he smiled. His teeth were very white. Anders looked him up and down again, then looked at Phelps, who shrugged noncommittally. Finally, Anders sighed.
“Leave your direction with Phelps. I would like to think about it for a day.”
Ford looked displeased, but he said, “Very well, My Lord.” Then he turned to follow Phelps out. His shoulders were slumped in defeat. Anders felt an unfamiliar surge of pity.
“Wait a moment, Mr. Ford,” he called. The young man turned. “Perhaps we could agree on a...a trial period.”
“My Lord?” Ford looked confused.
“One month. You give me thirty days, and at the end we’ll come to a decision. You may not enjoy working for me, after all.” Anders decided not to mention the fact that he had only had one secretary who had lasted longer than a month.
Ford beamed. “When would you like me to start?”
Anders ignored the glare from Phelps. “As soon as I have some decent clothes on.”
When Lord Stowe had gone, the butler led Clarissa upstairs. She was just grateful to get out of that bizarre room and away from the image she was sure was burned in her mind of the earl in it.
He had been naked in that pool—utterly and completely naked. Clarissa’s mind raced. She had been carefully raised, of course, though perhaps a little less rigidly than other girls. She had been allowed to read treatises on anatomy and physiology, and she knew—in theory—what men’s bodies looked like. But she had never seen a man in the altogether, and especially not one who was so impressive. She didn’t have to be told that all men did not have that sort of physique: chiseled muscles, tall, lean frame, and...well, she wouldn’t think about the rest or she would blush, and that would never do. Men’s bodies had never made her feel quite so uneasy before, though she reminded herself now that she had seen them only in the pages of the books she had had free access to in her father’s library. Seeing an actual naked man was quite different. She had been unable to view the situation clinically, as she had been taught.
Truly, how she had not managed to turn on her heel and bolt she did not know, but she was feeling exceedingly proud of her performance as Clarence Ford, secretary. All except the part where she had forgotten her pseudonym. And the part where she had almost cried. And the part where she had made it seem as though she were not a qualified secretary. Perhaps, she thought to herself as she followed Phelps up the stairs, it had not gone as well as it might. But he had hired her. He had taken her on. She would not starve, nor would she have to vacate her flat. She said a silent prayer of thanks now for this incredible twist of fate.
She had not even expected to get an interview for a few weeks. Indeed, she had only gone to that pub intending to test out her disguise. An hour’s outing among gentlemen, she had thought, would be the ideal place to see if she could pass as one of their number, and it had been going rather well when she had heard a snippet of conversation behind her.
“The earl fired you?” a man asked.
“Really, Tommy, I was planning to quit anyway.”
“Yes, but just before the session begins? How will he find another secretary so soon?” Clarissa had frozen, not daring to turn around.
“I can’t say that I care,” the recently fired man said. “He’s an ogre, Tommy, a real beast. Do you know he actually expected me to deliver messages at two in the morning? When I told him I was exhausted he suggested I sleep on a cot in the antechamber of his office at Westminster.”
“Did he give you a reference?”
“No, but that doesn’t matter. I’ve got plenty of others, and the agency will find me another place soon.”
“Not one as good as the Earl of Stowe, I’ll wager.”
“Perhaps not, but titles don’t mean everything. They certainly don’t in his case.”
“He can’t be that bad. Perhaps I’ll go along to Stowe House and offer my services.”
Clarissa had not even bothered to glance at the men. She had slammed her coin down on the rail, grabbed her hat and fled the pub.
Her next stop had been Stowe House.
“His Lordship’s study, sir,” the butler said now, throwing open the doors to the first room at the top of the stairs. Clarissa looked back down at the opulent foyer through which they had come before entering the study, which was also beautifully decorated, though, just like the foyer, about twenty years out-of-date.
The fine furniture that filled the study was nearly invisible to Clarissa, however, because of what sat in one corner. “This is Lord Stowe’s desk?” she inquired. She didn’t have to turn to sense the stony nod of the butler. “I see.”
Though she didn’t see at all. Lord Stowe had seemed to her a man of capability and efficiency, as if everything in his life were orderly. But his desk said otherwise. Clarissa’s father had taught her that the space in which a man did his business told a great deal, that he had often been able to judge a man’s political sensibilities just from the way he kept his office. This room told her that Lord Stowe was not the organized, sensible person she had thought he was. For one thing, the desk was in a dark, dingy corner, while the rest of the room appeared to be set up as a sitting room, with a divan and chairs, sideboard, and tea table. In a way Clarissa was glad the desk had been parked in that dingy corner, because it made the chaos atop it a little less striking. Still, when she crossed the room to survey the work that lay before her, she could not help but suck in an involuntary breath of shock and dismay. She wondered what other concl
usions she might be able to reach when she actually dove into the disorder that reigned atop the elegant desk. “How...how long has His Lordship been without a secretary?” she asked, wondering if she had misunderstood the man in the pub.
Phelps looked at his pocket-watch. “Four hours, sir.”
“Um. I see.”
“Would you like to tour the rest of the house now, Mr. Ford?”
Clarissa shook her head. “No, I think I’d better get started.”
THREE
“Is this really wise, My Lord?” Phelps asked as he helped Anders into his coat. Being a bachelor, Anders ran a small household. He had never had a valet before coming to the earldom, and Phelps had filled in for what was supposed to have been a month. It had been two years now, and they had settled into a comfortable routine. Anders was not sure if he would like another valet as much as he appreciated Phelps. Besides, with the endless parade of secretaries, he had enough upheaval in his life.
Indeed, besides his consistency, one of the things he most prized about his butler was the man’s ability to refrain from asking impertinent questions—a gift he seemed to have momentarily lost. “I don’t know,” Anders replied impatiently. “But I need someone, and he’s here. It’s not as if an agency would send me another man so quickly. It’s just for a month.”
“Yes, of course, My Lord, but—”
“No, no ‘buts’, Phelps. Let’s just see how he does.”
Phelps sighed as he finished brushing the shoulders of the fine green morning coat. “Of course, My Lord.”
Anders swept out of the room and down the hall to his study. When he got there, however, he almost turned around again, convinced he had walked into the wrong room. Only the presence of Clarence Ford made him pause.
The room looked completely different.
For one thing, the desk had been moved from the corner to the center of the room, below the bank of windows. His chair had been relocated to the side of the desk facing the door, instead of away from it. And another small table had been set to the left of his desk at an ‘L’, all the papers that had been heaped on his own desk now arranged on the new table in neat piles.