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

by Abigail Agar

  Lord Linfield had never heard a woman speak like this before. His smile faltered as he waited.

  “All right. Number one,” Bess said. She lifted her fork and ticked it against the side of her plate, still without eating. “Number one is that my identity is to remain a secret throughout our affairs. That means that you’re never to reveal the identity of L.B., which I will continue to write under, nor of your speechwriter. Is that clear?”

  “Actually, I assumed that already,” Lord Linfield said. “And I respect your decision. I know it must be difficult, being a woman in your status …”

  “Number two,” Bess said, speaking over him. “And I want to be clear about this. It involves payment.”

  Beside her, Irene nodded her head three times, her chin sharp. She was pushing Bess to continue. Nathaniel waited, unafraid of anything monetary. He had never had a single trouble with cash, and he could fulfill anything she demanded.

  “This involves two years’ worth of wages for me for each season in Parliament during which I write for you,” Bess continued.

  “Done,” Nathaniel said, smacking his palm atop the table.

  Her eyes flickered, showing her clear surprise. Perhaps she’d imagined that he would protest such a steep request, but he was genuinely aghast—and oddly pleased—that she’d asked for so much.

  Lady Elizabeth Byrd. Again, that name rang through his mind with an aura of familiarity. But the woman before him seemed not to be dressed as anyone with money. Why on earth was she a Lady? What had happened to her?

  “If that’s agreeable to you, that brings me to my third point,” Bess continued. “And that’s this. Throughout your run to Parliament, and within Parliament itself, you must put your full and honest support behind the Judgement of Death Act.”

  For a moment, Nathaniel thought he’d been smacked. He blinked at her, clearly shocked. His lips parted, holding upon them his hesitation, and then, his rage.

  “You can’t possibly think I would agree to such a thing after what happened to my father,” he said, his voice raspy and low. “He was killed by highwaymen. I believe in harsh punishment. It must act as a deterrent for thieves. Show them what might happen to them if they do such an act …”

  But Bess just shook her head, raising her eyebrows.

  “Isn’t that enough of a reason for you?” Nathaniel demanded. “I feel that it’s incredibly personal. It’s beyond personal. It’s my father, the very man for whom I’m running.”

  “What would your father say about such an act?” Bess asked him. “I can’t imagine that he’d be terribly against it. Your father was a good man, Lord Linfield. And the world would be a much better place if he was still here with us. But that doesn’t change my mind regarding this issue.”

  Nathaniel shoved his platter of food away from him. He felt apt to march from the table and tell Richard to see the women out. But then, he remembered the speech he’d been meaning to write, how the pages remained blank upstairs. He remembered what a fool he’d looked, both to this brilliant woman before him and the rest of the onlookers. How they’d muttered at him, affirming what he’d always known: he was no orator. And he looked like a fool. Nay, he looked like nobody they could ever trust.

  Irene continued to stare at both of them, half of her roll poised in the air. The butter had fully melted into the roll. Nathaniel couldn’t imagine being hungry again, so wild was his anger.

  Bess leaned forward in her seat, looking almost conspiratorial. Irene gaped at her, seemingly shocked that she might be so forward as to be the first one to speak after this lengthy silence. Bess tilted her head and then said, “Listen, Lord Linfield. I didn’t mean to enter your home and insult you.”

  “You’ve certainly done enough of that in print,” Nathaniel said, scoffing.

  Bess’s smile faltered. She lifted her fork and tapped it against the side of her plate. “It was never my intention to hurt anyone’s feelings,” she said.

  “Don’t belittle me to mere feelings, Lady Elizabeth,” Lord Linfield said. He forced himself to remain in his chair despite every itch to thrust it to the ground and storm out.

  “That isn’t what I meant,” Bess sighed. “All right, Lord Linfield. I will propose something, in the interim. You don’t necessarily have to agree to it.”

  Lord Linfield blinked several times, unable to believe that this woman—this, by all accounts, moderately beautiful (yet with a spark behind her eyes that most didn’t have, that was certain) woman, could possibly put him in his place.

  But he hadn’t any other option but to listen. He leaned closer, nodding his head. Beside them, a drop of butter oozed from the tip of Irene’s roll. It felt like time had stopped.

  “My proposal is this,” Bess continued. “I will write your speeches for you, Lord Linfield. I will do as you say, with the first two contractual obligations, as mentioned. But of the third, I propose that we continue a discussion over the course of the next weeks or months.”

  Lord Linfield arched his brow, almost incredulous that this woman could possibly think he would ever change his mind about something so completely integral to his life.

  But, with this agreement, he didn’t have to decide upon anything. He would have a stellar speechwriter, and he wouldn’t have to tell anyone that he’d hired her. He bowed his head, stood, and reached his hand across the table between them. Elizabeth grabbed his hand, with almost the strength of a man, and shook it.

  “I suppose we’ve found an accord, Lady Elizabeth,” he said.

  “I”m grateful to work with someone with such set beliefs,” Bess returned, surprising him. “For it’s better to have a man with morals, with obligations, with strength of self, than to write speeches for a man with little spine. That said, I do believe I’ll change your mind.”

  “We shall see,” Lord Linfield said, surprised to feel his heart pattering faster. Sweat dotted along the back of his neck. What had gotten into him, about this woman? It couldn’t be feelings. He’d never truly had them for anyone, regardless, and he didn’t actually know if he believed in love.

  Wasn’t that so much of the reason for pursuing this career in Parliament? Pushing off what his mother said about settling down? Pushing off growing old?

  Lord Linfield showed the women the door, after both he and Bess had hardly touched dessert, while Irene had scraped her plate clean. He bid them both adieu, finding himself lingering in eye contact with Lady Elizabeth. When he clicked the door closed, he remained in the foyer with his hand pressed against the wood for a long moment: as if he was trying to take the door’s temperature. In reality, the women were probably already far down the road, atop their carriage. And he felt only the frigid wood beneath his fingers.

  Chapter 9

  “Didn’t you see the way he looked at you?” Irene asked. It was early in the morning, about five days after the last dinner with Lord Linfield, and Bess had given Irene strict orders not to discuss the matter with anyone—least of all Bess herself. But often, Irene felt as though she was coming out of her own seams, falling into herself, if she couldn’t discuss what was on her mind. And now, holding the tea kettle high above Bess's mug, she finally said it. “He looked at you like you were the most important creature in his life.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Bess said, rolling her eyes far back in her head. “And, need I remind you I said that we couldn’t discuss this.”

  “You’re absolutely no fun, Bess,” Irene said, pushing her bottom lip out to pout. “I’ve kept quiet on the issue. Let you have your little space to think. But Bessie, my goodness, I feel destroyed here! Every day I have to slave away, making edits for some of the biggest imbeciles on the planet.” She paused for a moment, arching her brow. “Even now that Marvin has quit. Rather, he’s never returned after that little tirade. Ha.”

  Bess had stared at his empty desk for a few days, wondering if he might reappear. But he hadn’t, and instead had sent a letter in his wake—one that said, very simply, that he would never write for
such a simple and stupid newspaper ever again. “He’s never really been very nuanced, has he?” Irene had sighed, smashing the letter up between her palms.

  “You know I can help you with that editing,” Bess said, trying to yank the subject away from Lord Linfield.

  “On top of your secretarial duties? Absolutely not,” Irene said. Then, she placed the kettle back on the counter, bringing her eyebrows together tightly.

  “Then hire a new secretary,” Bess said. Then, she stuttered, realising her mistake, “Although, I suppose that would give me away, wouldn’t it?”

  “You can’t think for a moment that you’ll let me get off topic,” Irene said, her nostrils flared. “Regardless of your position—secretary, not secretary, whatever you wish—Lord Linfield looked at you like much more than his speechwriter. He looked at you like he’s wishing to whirl you around the next ballroom. Some men appreciate a woman with brains. Perhaps he’s one of them.”

  Bess sputtered, glaring at her friend before crossing the room and donning her hat for the day ahead. She felt she was moving in extra-fast motion, trying to run away from Irene’s opinions. “He hardly knows me. And didn’t you see how angry he got with me?” She sighed. “Besides, you know as well as anyone that I’m not a part of that world any longer. And if Lord Linfield is true to his word, he isn’t, so much, either. He’s committed to this run to Parliament. Not the debutantes.”

  “Well, you’re not exactly a debutante, are you?” Irene said, chuckling. She dripped a bit of sugar in her tea, her eyes glittering. “You’re a seasoned, nurtured, intelligent woman. Maybe that’s the kind of woman he’s looking for.”

  “Are you calling me old?” Bess asked, giving Irene a mischievous look.

  “I don’t believe you’re getting any younger,” Irene returned, cackling.

  “Fair enough. I suppose that’s what we all have to bear with, now.” Bess sighed. Already, her thoughts turned back to the speech she was busy writing up for Lord Linfield. She’d been lingering in the kitchen less and less.

  “There she goes again. My strange ghost,” Irene said, giggling. “I can’t trust you to hang around, can I?”

  “I have to get to work, Irene,” Bess stated. “Or my boss will fire me.”

  “You’re entirely right; I’ll fire you!” Irene called as Bess clacked through the door and closed it behind her.

  On the other side, Bess could hear Irene continue to titter to herself. The angst behind her words had grown in recent weeks since everything had seemingly crumbled with Lord Charles. Bess’s heart was heavy with this knowledge, knowing that Irene just needed a shoulder to cry on. But the woman was far too strong for admitting such a thing, and instead blazed ahead—willing to crack jokes about Bess’s “potential” suitors and not pay any attention to her own pain.

  It was part of the reason she liked Irene. But it also filled Bess with her own sadness, knowing Irene could never cure herself in all the ways she needed to. Bess supposed that nobody really knew how to do that. Certainly, not herself.

  In fact, in the wake of her fiancé’s death—his death by capital punishment, something that many, many people thought he deserved—Bess hadn’t been able to talk about it, herself. She’d hardly mentioned Connor’s name in the years since that horrendous day. She still remembered the day of the hanging: the sound of his neck breaking, the shrill cry from the crowd. Many people had applauded his death, knowing him to be a conman and a crook. But Bess had known a far different side to Connor. She’d known the man who could dance for hours with his hand at the base of her back. She’d known the man who’d mentioned how excited he was to have children with her. She’d known the man who’d cackled with her father, that first night they’d been introduced, in a way that made Bess believe that their families would unite with love.

  Bess perched on the edge of her office chair, her quill in her hand. Lord Linfield’s notes were splayed just to the left of her, scattered and ill-conceived. However, Bess was a good judge of character and had a sense of what he’d “meant” with several of his notes.

  Bess felt that to craft any good speech, one had to have a view of the audience. She closed her eyes, envisioning herself at the podium, with one hundred faces peering up at her. These were men with families, men with careers, men who looked to “Lord Linfield” as one to lead them to a more profitable existence. A life of happiness and kindness and comfort.

  She used this tone as she wrote, articulating what she knew Lord Linfield thought, yet doing it with allusions to poetry and beautiful artistry. As she read it back to herself, she marvelled at her own abilities—almost second-guessing that it had come from her own mind. How could she, a shamed Lady, have any sense of what Lord Linfield might say? And yet, she could hear his voice in her head as she read it in a whisper.

  “What are you up to, my dear?”

  Bess blinked up at one of their newer writers, a man named Winston, perhaps 25 or 26 years in age. Irene suspected that Winston had a bit of a crush on Bess, as over the previous week of his new employment he’d approached her desk several times to ask little, benign questions. He’d ask what the time was, for example, or whether or not she knew a good place for lunch. Bess was flattered, of course, yet always turned her attention back to her work.

  “Oh, Winston. Hello,” Bess said, slipping a white piece of paper over the top of Lord Linfield’s speech. “Just a bit of bookkeeping,” she stammered.

  “Was that really bookkeeping?” Winston said, his eyes sparkling. He leaned closer, his voice becoming a whisper. “Because I think something different.”

  Bess felt irritated to be drawn from her work but knew she had to appease him—if only to get out of the situation faster. She leaned closer, her eyes becoming slits. “What are you talking about, Winston?”

  “I think you’re a bit of a wannabe writer, if I’m being frank,” Winston said. His smile became crooked, mischievous. “Perhaps Miss Irene in there isn’t the only woman writer around here. I sense something in you, Lady Elizabeth. Something a bit—enriched, if you know what I mean.”

  Bess batted her eyelashes, trying to make herself appear youthful and innocent. “I’m afraid I don’t know a single thing about writing.” She sighed. “Although I would love to. In fact!” Her voice became hushed, holding Winston rapt with attention. “In fact, it’s the truth that I didn’t even learn to read until I was perhaps fourteen. I was a bit of an idiot, you see. My mother would rap my knuckles with a whip until I would sit with my books.”

  It was clear Winston hadn’t thought anything like this would happen. He took a step back, his eyes turning to the ground. Bess's heart pattered wildly. She had to force herself not to grin like a Jack-O-Lantern. Truly, she loved toying with him.

  “Well, I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings, Lady Elizabeth,” Winston said, taking yet another heavy step back. “I only meant …”

  “Oh, Winston. It’s really all right.” Bess leaned against her hands, tilting her elbows against her desk. She felt girlish and young, in these moments—younger than she’d been since Connor’s death, since her father’s disappearance. “It really is wonderful to be regarded as such. Oh, you and my mother, always pushing me higher and higher!”

  Winston didn’t say anything to this. He spun on his heels and sauntered to the door, placing his hat on his head and entering the grey world outside. Rain pattered across his shoulders. Bess grinned, turning her eyes towards Irene, who had been watching the entire incident from her office. Irene rolled her eyes back and then dropped her quill back on her pad of paper.

  So often, Bess felt that she and Irene lived in a world of their own creation. One with its own language. Which was why it had been strange to have Lord Linfield there the other night, seemingly a part of it. The handsome, angry Lord Linfield, who demanded so much more from his life than most.

  Hours later, all of the writers and Irene had taken their leave from the paper. But Bess remained at her desk, patching up the final notes of Lord Linf
ield’s speech. He was meant to deliver it the following afternoon to a crowd of more than 200 people. Bess knew that the Rising Sun had a hefty circulation—that “L.B.’s” words had been read by a wide variety of people. Yet it was truly something else to have her words spewed out across a crowd, in real time. It was like being a playwright, perhaps.