Page 1 of The Secret Identity of the Lord's Aide
Chapter 1
Lady Elizabeth Byrd stood at the teensy height of just five foot two. Her russet hair curled wildly down her back, after it dropped from her bun midway through the day, and her eyes were curious and alight—scouring the newspaper for the best political, philosophical, and satirical essays of the day. At twenty-nine years old, her mind was a whirring mechanism, never-stopping. Her best friend, Irene, said that was her top redeeming quality, and also her biggest fault.
“It’s why I took you in,” Irene had sighed frequently, rolling her eyes back. “You’re never boring. You’re frequently annoying.”
It was true that Irene Follett had seen more promise in Elizabeth—known as Bess amongst her closest friends (Irene being one of the only ones)—than anyone else, and had yanked her out of the terrors of society after a particularly wretched year in Bess’ life.
Things that seemed difficult to verbalise, in everyday conversation.
The death of her fiancé. The running away of her father.
The loss of her entire fortune.
Every possible horrendous thing that could happen to a young woman, they had all occurred to Bess before her 25th year. So: what was there left for a woman to do?
Secretarial work, of course. At least, that’s what the unequivocally bright Lady Elizabeth Byrd had been hunkering down with in the years since she’d abandoned Society for good. Gone were the endless nights of dancing quadrilles. Gone were the days of thinking of ways to please men—Lords, Earls, what have you. Suddenly, she had her entire life before her—entirely hers to sculpt. It was the most terrifying thing in the world.
“And, perhaps, the most liberating,” Irene reminded her frequently.
Now, Bess heard the cackle of her best friend and roommate, Irene, as she burst open the door of their London apartment—deep in what was often termed the “dangerous” neighbourhood—to discover a mighty bouquet of roses. Bess rushed from her bedroom, her curls falling down her back. When she reached Irene, she blared, “What is it?” her heart racing wildly in her throat.
But Irene just spun back, her eyes glowing above bright pink cheeks. She pressed the roses forward, grinning wildly. Lady Bess turned back towards the kitchen of their home, watching as the kettle billowed smoke above the small fire in the corner. She rolled her eyes, guiding Irene back into the house.
“Is he really so amazingly cartoony?” Bess sighed, speaking of the roses. She gripped the kettle with a towel and tapped it atop the counter, swishing her palms together. “I mean, really, Irene. The man belittled your intelligence the last time you spent time together. I was seated directly beside you. I thought for sure you were going to smack him.”
Irene giggled again, slipping the roses into a vase atop the table and plumping them at the bottom to make the bouquet look full. She grinned to herself, speaking in a soft voice, “You know, Lord Charles can be a complete imbecile. And the fact that he said that, well. I’ve been avoiding him at all costs. Making sure he knows what kind of mistake he made.”
Bess poured them each a cup of tea, arching her brow. “So you think he learned his lesson?”
“It’s impossible to know.” Irene sighed. “But I agreed to meet with him at the ball next Saturday evening, to give him a dance.”
“All because of some silly flowers?” Bess asked, rolling her eyes. “Lord Charles doesn’t know what he has. You’re the editor of a newspaper, for goodness sake, Irene. And he treats you like you’re a child.”
At this, Irene sniffed, drawing her chin higher. She gave a sharp look to Bess, who was a good half-a-head shorter than her good friend, and spoke with a harsh tone. Bess waited, sensing that her friend Irene was falling from the clouds and dropping, dropping back to the reality of this dismal morning in mid-April. Rain peppered the glass windows. The tea was a necessary warmth, coating their throats.
“As if you know anything about courting,” Irene said.
It was a fair point. Bess opened her lips, arching her brow with curiosity. Ordinarily, when Irene turned a strange shade of angry—she did it because she cared more.
But then, with a jolt, Bess realised she had to be at the homeless shelter within fifteen minutes. She rushed up from her chair, tossing her tea back to the table before them. “Can we finish this later?” she called, darting towards the coat rack. “It’s not because I don’t care …”
“I know, I know.” Irene sighed. “It’s because you care too much. About everyone.”
“I can’t help it,” Bess stammered, giving Irene a sly grin.
“I’ll see you later, my darling imbecile,” Irene said with a sigh.
“Love you, too,” Bess affirmed.
Chapter 2
Lord Nathaniel Linfield, the 7th Earl of Dartmouth, stood nearly six and a half feet tall, a full two heads over his mother, Lady Eloise Linfield, the Dowager Countess of Dartmouth. Regardless of his clear swagger, his dashing good looks, his broad shoulders and swept-back, blond curls, Lady Eloise had a way of staring her nose down upon him as if he was still that fourteen-year-old, cunning teen who’d sneaked out of the estate to toil in the forest for hours at a time—hunting, fishing, hiking. “Oh, Nathaniel. Is it possible that you’ll ever grow up?” his mother had sighed countless times back then.
Now, she had a habit of speaking in a similar, scathing tone, despite his thirty-three years. They stood in his father’s study, their feet atop the oriental rug his father had purchased on a long-ago journey through India.
“You can’t possibly believe you can just void yourself from society in this manner, Nathaniel,” his mother said, her voice studied and sharp.
“Void myself? Why, I can’t possibly understand what you mean,” Nathaniel said, turning towards the window. He latched his hands behind his back, at waist-level, and studied the trees as they tossed themselves to and fro in the fresh spring air. The smell of flowers whirled through the crack in the window, overpowering the gritty air of the city. He willed himself to be far from indoors—deep in the woods, his dog darting along at his side.
