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

by Abigail Agar

  He paused for a long moment, recognising how asinine he sounded. He coughed once, then turned his face towards his window. He could feel Richard’s eyes upon him, seemingly judging him.

  Lord Linfield stayed up nearly half the night, tossing and turning, thinking only of the newspaper’s release the following day. What on earth could Lady Elizabeth possibly say about his speech? It had been inspirational, powerful in the right parts, slow and steady, just as she’d instructed. But he recognised that he was at the mercy of her quill. Whatever she penned the following day could have a dramatic change on the popular opinion of him.

  He blinked awake just after dawn when light oozed grey between the trees. He peered out from his window, stretching his massive arms over his head. Before dressing, he peered at himself in the mirror: the muscles that were so sculpted across his stomach, the thick chest, the coarse hair across it. When he’d been a younger man, the debutantes had been largely chasing after him—whispering about him when he’d crossed their paths. “I think he looked at me!” they’d whisper to one another, giggling with anxiety. “I think he wants me. He’ll surely ask me to dance!”

  “Why can’t you take an interest in a single one of them?” His mother had sighed, time and time again. She’d chosen several women for him, including Lady Theresa, and yet he’d never latched onto them. He’d always seen them as empty shells, void of any real meaning besides having children, besides becoming “Lady Linfield,” whatever that meant.

  Lord Linfield dressed and strolled down to the breakfast table, where he encountered his mother sipping tea and nibbling a piece of toast. She flashed her eyes up at him, grinning in a rather secretive way.

  “Now, tell me,” his mother said, watching with cat-like eyes as Nathaniel sat on the other side of the table. “Tell me. What is it I’m hearing?”

  “You’re going to have to be less cryptic, Mother,” Lord Linfield said, arching his brow.

  Lady Eloise slid a napkin across her lips, seemingly enjoying playing with him in this manner. “I’ve just received word from one of your father’s good friends. Sir Isaac.”

  “Oh, yes,” Lord Linfield said. He teetered forward, pouring himself a glass of coffee from the large mug before him.

  “He says he finds your speeches are becoming more and more promising,” his mother said. “Finds that you might be the very man the Tories are looking for. Now, wouldn’t you like to tell me—what on earth has changed?”

  Lord Linfield tipped his head to the right, looking at his mother with an incredulous expression. “What on earth are you talking about?”

  “Nathaniel, you know as well as I do that you’re not a natural, shall we say, people person,” his mother said, leaning closer over her plate. She dropped her toast over it, and then folded her fingers before her. She looked as though she was conducting an interview.

  “I don’t know any world where that doesn’t sound like an insult, Mother,” Nathaniel said. He stuck a piece of toast between his teeth and then chewed slowly, feeling his heart beat wildly in his throat.

  “You know, I know perfectly well you’ve had guests about the house,” his mother said then. “It’s not as though I don’t know the goings-on when I’m not here.” Her eyes drew into slits, staring him down. “But I know you wouldn’t court a woman, here at the house, without me. That would be outside the bounds of propriety.”

  “Absolutely not,” Lord Linfield said, shaking his head. “It’s been workers for The Rising Sun, if you must know. Political journalists …”

  “Ah,” his mother said, looking even more intrigued. “Is that so? I don't know a single reason why you might be trying to befriend journalists from The Rising Sun, especially given that they tend to pan you, don’t they?”

  Lord Linfield stood from the table, knocking his chair so hard with his legs that it fell to the ground and rattled back and forth. He lifted his toast, and then another piece, from the platter, and turned towards the door. “I really don’t know what you’re on about, Mother, but I must take my leave. I’m due for a jaunt through the woods with old Barney.”

  “You can’t hide whatever you’re up to from me, my dear Nathaniel,” his mother said, her voice chasing him out the door. “You know that.”

  Lord Linfield dressed in his proper hiking outfit and sprung from the estate, finding his dog, Barney, near the carriage house and hailing him with a quick whistle. The dog rushed up beside him, panting, his tongue lolling from his mouth. When Nathaniel stroked behind the dog’s ears, he felt a stab of compassion for the animal—knowing that Barney understood him more than most humans did, and that, unlike his mother, Barney wouldn’t talk back.

  They ran through the woods together, Lord Linfield and his quiet companion, before returning to the mansion around the time Nathaniel knew the paper would be coming in from the city. He paced his study, still in his forest gear, his hands wrapped behind his back. Sometimes, he felt a stab in his gut, something that told him Lady Elizabeth would probably pick fun at his current, anxious behaviour. He was a Lord, for God’s sake, and yet he was acting like some sort of crazed child. He needed to calm his racing mind. Needed to stop thinking of Lady Elizabeth. Yet each time he closed his eyes, he felt he could visualise her before him. He imagined what it would be like to wrap her smaller hands in his.

  As they approached a clearing, Barney spotted a rabbit and erupted from the grass—springing forward more like a wolf than a dog. Lord Linfield burst alongside him, rushing fast as Barney attempted to wrap the rabbit’s neck with his teeth. The rabbit sneaked through some underbrush, flitting off into the next world, while Barney tore into the thick weeds. Barney’s neck caught in the weeds, and he let out a wild whine, one of fear. Nathaniel dropped to his knees beside him, his heart nearly bursting with compassion. The dog looked up at him with big, glossy eyes, lending him another whine.

  “Shh. It’s quite all right, old boy,” Nathaniel murmured, surprised at the softness of his own voice. He began to unravel the dog’s hair from the brush, picking out the thorns and undoing the vines. Barney allowed his tongue to loll from his mouth, and he panted, giving Nathaniel a large smile. “I told you,” Nathaniel said. “I told you I would take care of you.”

  Finally, Nathaniel undid the final vine and released his pup, which lurched up from the ground and batted at Nathaniel’s cheeks with his tongue. Nathaniel fell into laughter, there in the midst of the woods, all alone. He swept his hands across Barney’s neck and back, his heart feeling squeezed. In these moments, when his dog gave him such grand and sweeping suggestions of love, Nathaniel was awash with the feeling that he wanted to give this kind of love to children, one day. That somewhere down the line, he wanted to play with his children upon the grass, laugh with them, chase them silly until they fell to the ground in fits of giggles. But this time, the image was filled with another figure—one of his future wife.

  His smile deflated a bit when he realised that his unconscious mind gave him an image of Lady Elizabeth, in place of that figure. He shoved it away, rising to his feet and giving a final pat to his dog. Barney again gave him a sombre expression, one that told him that his trust was in him, wholly. “Old boy, I think it’s time to return home. Perhaps a bit too much activity for one day,” Nathaniel said.

  Chapter 15

  Lady Elizabeth awoke on Saturday morning awash with light. Deep in the night, she’d awoken and stretched the curtains to one side, choosing to daydream her precious hours away and stare into the gleaming light of the cobblestones, reflecting back the moon. It was an unfortunate thing, these nights: when she was riddled with regret, due to the misfortune of her previous life. Always, she ached for the presence of someone beside her at night: someone to hold her as she shook, as she feared for the creeping loneliness of older age. At 28 years old, she was a borderline hag, a woman with little worth, in society’s eyes.

  “And yet, I can write. And that is what I have. What I’ve always had,” had been her final resolve, before allowing hers
elf to slip off to sleep.

  In the next bedroom, Bess could hear the shifts of Irene as she hobbled about, perhaps cleaning up or searching for something. Bess reached up, made her hand into a fist and tapped on the wall, grinning to herself. Within seconds, Irene tapped back. They created a kind of pattern, then: Bess tapping, then Irene tapping, until both girls devolved into giggles. Whatever happened in the chaos of the world, they had one another on the other side of their walls. That was all that mattered.

  Bess dressed in a very simple frock, bringing her hair back into a small bun. That morning, as she did many others, she planned to volunteer at the nearby homeless shelter, passing out soup and bread to the poor. It was something she’d committed to several years before, just after she’d watched Conner hang for his crimes. Something within her had died. And she’d so ached to get it back that she’d turned to performing better acts. Acts that might ensure that the world could become a better place.

  Irene was at the kitchen table when Bess arrived, dressed and fresh-faced. She tipped her spoon into her porridge and stuck out her tongue at her friend. “Going to go save the world, are you?” Irene asked.

  “One day at a time.” Bess sighed, grinning.

  “Come along. Have a bit of porridge, won’t you? You’re becoming skin and bones. Spending long nights staying up writing that Lord’s speeches, on top of your other work,” Irene began.

  Bess gave her a dark look before tossing her eyes back.

  “If you’re not going to care for yourself, then at least let me do it.” Irene sighed. “I can’t very well have you fainting. You’re one of my best-read writers at The Rising Sun. It’s a pure professional move, ensuring you’re quite all right.”

  Bess nabbed a bit of bread from the counter, winking at her friend. “You’re too good to me,” she said.

  Bess scuttled down the road. It was a Saturday morning in the drabbest neighbourhood in London, and the sunlight made the chaos look almost Technicolor. Homeless people hobbled along, their hands wrapped in bandages and their eyes downcast. Bess gave them meaningful looks, the occasional smile, remembering those days when it felt that nobody ever looked at her. During those days after her father had run off, and her ruin had gone back to the many people he and Conner had swindled, she’d felt more alone than she could possibly understand. She’d marvelled at the loneliness, how one day you could be a debutante, an electric woman of the world who everyone wanted to sit next to. And the next, you walked down the road to downcast eyes, to people who were suddenly genuinely unwilling to call you a human.

  The homeless shelter had been running for the previous ten years. When Bess had begun her work there, she’d noted how many children had scampered into the midst, just skin and bone, hungry for scraps. “Where are all these children’s parents?” she’d asked the then-operator, Ms Thomas. “It just breaks my heart to see them. They don’t utter a single word of hello. It’s as though they don’t trust the world. Although I suppose, why should they?”

  Ms Thomas had chosen her words carefully, and for good reason. The older woman, since deceased after a horrific influenza ripped her from the world, placed a hand on Bess’s lower arm and whispered, “Darling Elizabeth. Bess. In fact, you have far more in common with these children than I think you know.”

  “What do you mean?” Bess had asked. She hadn’t spoken at length of the affairs with her father and Conner, certainly not with Ms Thomas. Although she sensed it was apparent. Whispers travelled so far in London.

  “Darling, these children. They’re generally the sons and daughters of people who committed crimes.”

  Bess had staggered forward, nearly tumbling into the table before her. “Murder, you mean,” she said, stitching her eyebrows together. “Something enormous. All of these children come from parents—”

  “No,” Ms Thomas had affirmed. “Unfortunately not. In fact, darling, many of these children’s parents are dead for some of the most frivolous acts. Stealing food for their families, when they couldn’t possibly buy enough. Stealing clothes for their backs for the same reason. Petty crimes, met with such unfortunate actions. It’s as if the government wants to snip the lives of as many people as possible, without readily thinking of the children they ultimately affect.”

  After this conversation, Bess had felt a burning fire in her belly. She’d torn forward on her quest to better the world, crafting a separate set of rooms at the homeless shelter just for these children. When she’d begun it, she’d fallen into conversation with some of the angrier children, the children who were well-aware of what had happened to them. They were scrappy, wearing clothes that scratched their necks. Their fingernails were long and brown, often with blood edged between. They’d grabbed the porridge she’d poured for them, eyeing one another with lack of trust. “Why ain’t we in with the other folks?” one had asked her, his eyebrows low. “Did we do something wrong, hey?”

  “I’m quite certain you’ve done nothing wrong,” Bess had told him. “In fact, this is a safe place for all of you to come. To speak to one another, to eat, to play and to laugh.” She’d eyed the next room, watching as the adults shouldered up to the counter for their slops and soup. “The people in there, they’re good people. They truly are. But you’re children, yet. Which means you deserve your own time.”

  The children hadn’t warmed up to her quickly. In fact, she’d heard them muttering amongst themselves throughout the first several weeks. Ms Thomas had at one point told Bess that she’d made a decent try at the program—that perhaps it was time to hang it up, allow the children to return to the adults and keep their heads down. “They just want to hide. And you’re not letting them,” Ms Thomas had said, her voice low.

  It was a young girl, perhaps seven or eight years old, who had changed everything for Bess’s program. One afternoon at the shelter, the girl had marched up to Bess, murder in her eyes. She’d smacked her fists on either side of her waist, stared her angled face up at Bess’s, and demanded, “Why do you want to help us? You clearly from good blood, Miss. You clearly all cleaned up and well and all that. Why don’t you go back to your mansion and leave us be, hey? You know the rest of the state, it leaves us be. And you will, too.”

  Bess dropped to her knees before the girl. The other children hovered over their bowls of stew, watching with cat-like eyes. When Bess spoke, she did so in a tender voice, praying that the meaning would translate.

  “I understand the world has turned its back on you,” she’d whispered. “I understand that right now, it doesn’t feel that anything will ever feel all right again. I know I don’t live on the street. I have enough food to eat. But the state has ensured that I will never see my family ever again, just like you. And you know what? I miss them. Even though I’m terribly, terribly angry at what they did, I’m so, so sad.”

  The girl had gaped at her for a long moment, her nostrils flared. When she opened her mouth, Bess noted that the girl had browning teeth. She would surely lose them before she was ten years old. Behind her, the other kids had begun to creep up, giving Bess incredulous looks. Perhaps they were unaccustomed to any adult being completely honest with them. To many, they weren’t just the scum of the earth. They were the sons and daughters of the scum of the earth.

  “Now, who wants to play a game of football?” Bess had asked in the gaping silence. She’d reached around her back, tossed a ball into the air between them. She’d shot her foot out beneath her skirts, preparing to kick it to one of the boys. “Because I’m terribly tired of all this talking. And I think it’s time to be children again.”

  Since then, Bess had developed quite a reputation, especially amongst the children who had lost their families after their crimes. Since Bess had accepted the position as secretary at The Rising Sun, she’d had to cinch down her hours at the shelter, but she’d instated several prime men and women in her place—three of which had similar situations to Bess. One volunteer, a woman named Lady Margaret, had been left at the alter by a swindling fool, attem
pting to take her family’s money. When she’d caught him, he’d fled, but not before murdering her father when he’d tried to stop him. When Lady Margaret smiled at Bess, Bess felt the ghosts behind that smile. She felt the ache in her heart.

  Could either of them ever find love again?

  Bess marched into the shelter, finding herself in a cluster of wild children in the midst of feeding time. It was breakfast, and the children clambered in from the streets—those who chose not to stay overnight (something that was always an option), with growling bellies and lips apt to tell a million raucous stories from their lives on the streets.