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

by Abigail Agar

  Lady Margaret and another volunteer, a younger chap named Edgar, were manning the breakfast table and listening to the stories, their faces rapt with attention. Lady Margaret spotted Bess first and flashed her hand with a wave, shrugging. “It’s quite insane here today,” she called over the hubbub. “Saturday, I suppose. Plus, the sunshine.”

  “Understandable!” Bess called back.

  Several of the children recognised Bess and swirled towards her, tossing their arms around her legs and holding her tight against them. “Bess! Bess!’ one child, a boy named Oscar, called. “Look at what I found!” He flashed a card out from his pants, the Queen of Hearts, and grinned madly. “You know what this means, don’t you? It means good luck will befall me, hey? It means good things are coming my way.”

  Bess gave a long look at the card, nodding her head quickly. She always tried to make sure that she gave power to each and every emotion felt by one of the children at the shelter. It was an individual game, wherein if you allowed a single person to slip in the cracks, you lost. Each of them mattered. Each of them had a different story, a different tale of loss.

  Other children made their way to her, even as she strapped on an apron and began to slop porridge into bowl after bowl. As she only volunteered on Saturdays and the occasional evening, they had several tales to describe to her. The stories were always a bit hard to hear, for Bess, who often spent many of her hours at The Rising Sun worrying about the children. “Out there on their own,” she’d once verbalised to Irene, tears streaming down her face. “You know, if I could, I would adopt all of them.” To this, Irene had said only, “You can’t save everyone, Bess. You can only keep yourself standing, so that other people may cling to you when they fall.”

  One of the older boys, one named Peter, was nearing 15—which meant he would soon have to transition to the adult-only room. His eyes had a hollow look to them as he approached this age-up. Bess remembered meeting him when he’d been only about ten, turning into a petty thief like his father. He hadn’t a choice, at the time, and had had to steal bread and fruit for his sister, who was a few years younger than him. Bess had taken him aside at this age, telling him that he could come to the shelter any day of the week for assistance. Peter had been hard and resilient, speaking like a man much older than himself. “I have to take care of my sister. I don’t care about myself,” he’d scoffed.

  Of course, all that had changed when his sister had died of cholera the previous winter. All the light had whooshed out of Peter’s eyes. He’d stopped appearing at the shelter and had returned to stealing—using the tactics he’d honed as a child. Once, when Bess had been working at The Rising Sun, Lady Margaret had rushed into the offices, blaring out that Peter had been arrested. “He’s asking only for you,” she’d said. “He says he won’t go with anyone else.”

  Bess had arrived at the police station only fifteen minutes later, huffing and sweating. She remembered feeling that her skirts weighed more than one hundred pounds that day. When she’d rushed into the police station, she’d spotted Peter in the corner of a cell—his face in his hands. Her heart had nearly broken for him.

  “And who the hell are ye supposed to be, me lady?” one of the officers had asked, his words scornful. “Blimey, you’s a pretty thing.”

  Bess had lifted her chin, glaring at the man. She longed to articulate just how much she despised him at that moment, but she knew that was a detriment to the task at hand. She nodded her head towards little Peter in the cell, saying, “That’s my nephew there. I’m going to need his release immediately.”

  “It’ll cost ye a pretty penny,” the police officer had said, sniffing. He rustled his finger beneath his nose, a disgusting portrait of a fat police officer.

  “I’ve got the money,” Bess had said.

  She flashed through her wallet, drawing out nearly half her week’s wages for the boy. When she slapped it on the desk between her and the officer, she’d felt a punch in her gut. But in no capacity was it the wrong decision. When she heard the cell door unlatch, when she heard the soft footfalls of Peter—at the time devoid of purpose, feeling lifeless and strange after the death of his sister—she knew giving the money was worth it.

  After that, she’d started gifting Peter things. Small things, like books, newspapers, magazines. Always, the gifts were literary or artistic in their base, as she felt she wanted to instill in him some sort of purpose. Gradually, he’d grown more open with her about what he’d read, guiding her to the side of the shelter house to describe to her his feelings regarding a particular text. His opinions were sound and electric, the stuff of a much older man.

  Now, Peter tapped his empty porridge bowl atop the table between them and gave her a shaky, if true, smile. Bess winked at him. “I don’t suppose you tore through that essay I gave you last week, did you?” she asked.

  Peter leaned heavily across the table, giving her a sneaky look. “Finished it up in a few hours, mate. What will you put me through next? I’ve been chomping at the bit for something else.”

  Bess raised her finger into the air, mouthing, “One moment!” and then reached for her bag. She dumped out two books onto the table, beaming at him. “They were two of my favourites when I was your age.”

  Peter reached for the books: one on philosophy and the other a fantastical story of love, loss, adventures, and pirates. He nodded slowly, his bony fingers turning the books over and over. “Looks good. Looks really good.”

  “When I was reading them, I was training to be a debutante, if you can believe it,” Bess found herself saying, almost stuttering over the words. “I was meant to be practicing my different languages—Latin, Greek, German, French. But instead, I would sneak off to read. It was a difficult time. My father told me I’d never find a husband.” She giggled, rolling her eyes back. Peter knew her history, better than any of the other children.

  “I think books are better than husbands,” Peter said.

  “I always knew you were wiser than most adults,” Bess said.

  Peter paused at the table, shifting his weight. His eyes looked a bit hollow, a bit lost. “Bess, I wanted to ask you. Ask you something.”

  Bess turned towards Lady Margaret, arching her brow. “Do you mind if I take a moment to sit with Peter? We have a few things to discuss.”

  Bess and Peter moved over to the corner of the room, standing against the brick wall as the long, snake-like line of children, all affected by their parents’ deaths due to petty crimes, sneaked through the shelter. Peter muttered, “It’s like they just keep coming. No matter how much time passes, the law will never change.”

  Bess remembered her pact with Lord Linfield. She swallowed, her throat feeling tight, wondering what he would say if he could see this scene, just now. Wouldn’t he sense just how foolish it was not to uphold the Judgement of Death Act? Wouldn’t he sense that people like Peter were far more important, more worthy of love and trust, than any revenge against some ruthless highwayman?

  “I hope one day it will,” Bess offered, although her voice was doubtful, her words far away.

  “You know I’m nearly ageing out of your shelter, Bess,” Peter said. He shifted, stabbing his hands into his pockets. “I can’t imagine how far gone I’ll be when that happens.”

  “You know how to take care of yourself,” Bess said. Her heart had begun its strange pattering, feeling very far away. “You know that even though you have to rely on yourself, I’m here for you whenever you need to talk. And the homeless shelter, it’s really not so wretched …”

  “It’s not the warm blanket this place has been, the past five years,” Peter stammered. “Frankly, I’m not sure I can see myself. See myself going on, after this.”

  Bess whirled towards him. She grabbed his upper arms, her fingers stabbing into his thin skin. He winced slightly, but it was clear he liked the attention. It was clear he needed someone like her, seeing him. Knowing he was still alive.

  “Don’t talk like that,” Bess said.


  She was grateful that the children in the shelter were rampant and wild, speaking over the top of one another. Nobody could hear her and Peter, couldn’t sense the tension. She sighed, trying to halt the tears as they formed in her eyes.

  “You’re a brilliant man, Peter. You’ve always been a man, and had to be.” She paused for a long moment, searching his face. “Why don’t you, hmm.” She paused for a moment, wondering if she could make it work. “Why don’t you work for me?”

  Peter paused, gaping at her. As her heart raced, faster and wilder in her chest, Bess fell more and more for the spontaneous idea. “Yes. Absolutely. I can’t imagine another way,” she continued. “You absolutely must come to work for me. I’ve fallen into a new position, you see, and I’m terribly unorganised. Secretarial work during the day, a bit of writing on the side in the night.” She paused, her mind cluttered. “If you could be my secretary of sorts. Cleaning my house. Arranging my carriage rides when it’s required that I journey to a client’s home. Picking up the odds and ends of my life …”

  She drifted off, watching Peter’s expression as he listened. He flashed his grey teeth, looking brighter than the sun. With a jolt, he smashed the back of his hand across his mouth and laughed to himself, shrugging. “You really think I could fall into your world like that, Lady Bess?”

  “Peter, I’ve never seen anyone take to the books I lend them the way you have,” Bess said. “It’s remarkable. In fact, each and every week, I look forward to coming to this very shelter and speaking to you about them. But—”

  And here, she paused, feeling the air grow taut between them. She was offering him a leg-up. A life he’d never been allowed to hope for.

  “But imagine a life without the shelter,” she said, her voice hushed. “A life in which you don’t have to beg or steal or …” She swallowed, drawing her arms over her chest and crossing them. “Peter, I want to offer you this job. And I know you can do it.”

  Seconds later, Peter tossed his stick-thin arms around her shoulders and drew her against him. He sighed, then laughed, then sighed, allowing his own tears to drench his face. When their hug fell apart, he blinked at her, almost incredulous. “When do I start?”

  Chapter 16

  Nathaniel’s first ball of the autumn months occurred on the Saturday after his previous speech. Hours prior to the grand event, Nathaniel dressed in an immaculate suit, glossing over his hair with a bit of oil and frowning at himself in the mirror for a solid minute. How foolish it seemed to ready himself for a ball when he hadn’t a single inclination to dance with a single woman. Certainly, he liked the attention—both from the men and the women, but he also felt assured that he wouldn’t settle for just any debutante at any ball.

  It was against his nature. And, he felt, it belittled the act of falling in love. If that truly was an act at all.

  Lord Linfield imagined the women of the ball—the daughters of his father’s friends—performing the strange task of preparation for the evening ahead. The large ball gowns, donned. The hair, so curled and strange and otherworldly. The make-up, perfectly powdered. He shivered, feeling the animal nature of their brains. “Must find a husband. Must find a husband.” He could see it sparkling behind their eyes when he spotted them on the streets.

  Wasn’t life meant for more than this?

  Nathaniel met Richard on the porch of the mansion. He gripped the porch railing and gazed out towards the trees that swirled along the edge of the property. Richard asked him about the upcoming event. Whether or not he required company. But Nathaniel sensed a faraway look in the man’s eyes. Something that told him Richard deserved a night alone.

  He wasn’t entirely sure why. But he placed his hand atop Richard’s shoulder, trying to catch the man’s gaze.

  “Take the next few nights off, Richard, my boy,” Nathaniel said. “You’ve been working for me countless hours the past weeks. And because I’ve been so lost in my own skull, I haven’t given it much notice, now, have I? How reckless of me. Please. Find a way to forgive me.”

  “There’s nothing to forgive,” Richard returned, although his eyes were guarded, and his lips were pressed into a tight line.

  Lord Linfield considered this, en route to the ball: that it seemed men like Richard, and perhaps like Nathaniel himself, were continually lonely, yet unwilling to fight that loneliness. In Lord Linfield’s case, fighting that loneliness meant dancing with debutantes. It meant following his mother’s wishes to dance, court, engage, and marry a woman of a similar class. It meant following the rules of the society surrounding him, rather than hiding in the woods.

  And, Nathaniel sensed that he would be more apt to remain a part of Parliament if he followed these set standards.

  The carriage sprung up alongside the grand estate of his father’s old friend, the illustrious architect Lord Frederick Read. Lord Linfield tapped his boot to the side of the carriage, gave a firm wave to the carriage hand, before turning fully to the mansion at the top of the steps. The mansion was alight for the ball, with orchestral music swirling out from the windows. It felt as though the mansion was breathing. It glowed brighter than the moon.

  When Lord Linfield entered the foyer, a maid scurried towards him to take his overcoat. He whirled it from his broad shoulders, scanning the balding selection of his father’s peers on the far side of the room. Several of them had spotted Lord Linfield and had turned their slumped forms to face him. Lord Frederick raised his brandy glass, beckoning to Nathaniel. Nathaniel nodded, sensing his place. He had to uphold their vision for a better Parliament, a better future.

  “My boy,” Lord Frederick said, snapping his hand across Nathaniel’s back. “It’s quite lovely to see your face around here. I’d heard rumours that your mother’d given up all hope on your settling down.”

  “My mother’s only interest lies in matters of the heart,” Nathaniel said, trying his best to be clever.

  “That Lady Eloise is a difficult one to cross. When she made her mind up about something, dear me, your father had quite a time with her, I know that,” Lord Frederick said, tittering.

  Nathaniel tilted his head forward, stitching his eyebrows together. He ached to hear whatever story bumbled around Lord Frederick’s mind regarding his parents. Nathaniel had his own memories, of course—his own images of his father and mother and their occasional, rare moments of intimacy. The subtle way his father would stroke his mother’s hand when he walked past her reading chair. The way his mother would flash her eyelashes when she teased his father. In some ways, their love was youthful and electric, far more than the relations between many of Lord Linfield’s contemporaries.

  But when Lord Linfield began to press Lord Frederick for more details, Lord Frederick’s voice rose louder for his own intentions.

  “Of course, I’ll be introducing you to my eldest daughter in good time, this evening,” he continued, raising his eyebrows up and down in a provocative way. “Quite a darling girl. My favourite, if I do say so myself. And I do hope to see you out turning her around on the dance floor at some point in the evening, my boy.”

  Lord Linfield ached to march away from the scene, to run from the eyes of his father’s peers, so hungry to tear into him—to ask his opinions about the various Tory policies and whether or not he was thinking of settling soon. The men were perhaps 20 years Nathaniel’s senior, and they were ready to latch onto him: ensure that he lost his hair, that his belly grew long and flabby like theirs, and that his eyes grew grey and tired. It was as though they were already dead and trying to tear Nathaniel down with them.

  Nathaniel finally retreated for the far corner of the ballroom, where several 20- and 30-something men stood with hunched shoulders, looking with vague interest at the debutantes in their cake-like gowns across the floor. From where Nathaniel stood, he could feel his tongue coating with their perfume, could smell the thickness of their make-up atop their cheeks. When his eyes raced over them—over the pinks and the blues and the yellows of their dresses—his stomach stirre
d. Another selection of women, another display. Each of their eyes glowed with promise. They were akin to puppies in a box, waiting for adoption.