Page 11 of The Secret Identity of the Lord's Aide
“I’m terribly sorry, sir,” she said. Nathaniel was surprised to hear that her voice was still firm and stoic despite the adrenaline that seemed to propel from all that she was. “For I’ve entered your house under incorrect assumptions. And I shouldn’t muddle your head a moment more.”
“What on earth are you talking about?” Nathaniel demanded.
Again, Bess cleared her throat. “You see, it is I, L.B.—Lady Elizabeth Byrd. It’s the pen name I gave myself after Irene asked me to write a column. I didn’t imagine that the column would take off, as it was my first. But, as you said, many on the streets of London have begun speaking about my words—MY words. And I can’t imagine stopping, now.”
Nathaniel felt as though he’d been smacked. He gaped at this gorgeous woman—at her firm curves beneath her dark green dress, her russet hair that curled out of its bun, at her sharp, dark eyes. How could it be possible that such lively words could spew from this woman’s quill?
“I don’t understand,” Nathaniel said, turning his eyes back towards Irene.
“It’s not so difficult to understand,” Irene said, scoffing. She muttered, mostly to herself, “Perhaps he really doesn’t have the intellect to run for office, in the end …”
“Shhh.” Bess rolled her eyes and returned to her seat. This time, she didn’t remove her eyes from Nathaniel’s. “Really, Irene, that’s unkind. I told you, I know Lord Linfield to have the bones of a brilliant campaign.”
“The bones?” Nathaniel demanded.
“What was it you said in your letter, Lord Linfield?” Bess asked. “You said you wanted to discuss my writing talents. You said you wanted to pick my brain. Is that correct?”
“I mean, that was before …” Nathaniel began.
“Before what?” Bess asked, her grin widening. “I can’t imagine anything is different, now that you know I’m a woman. I’m still the hand and the brain behind those essays, Nathaniel.”
Nathaniel was no longer hungry. He shoved his plate away, sipping the last dregs of his first glass of wine. Within moments, another maid appeared and poured another helping. She kept her eyes downturned. In these moments, Nathaniel felt strange and far away from his own mind. For whatever reason, in these moments, he was able to shove off the ordinary fear he had when in front of a crowd—the very fear that so often caused him to flub his speeches. When he spoke, he was more articulate than he’d been in months.
“Here’s the thing, Bess,” he began. “I grew up watching my father’s political career. I admired everything that he was: from his speechmaking to his balanced decision-making, to his ability to read a room before speaking, to his essay writing. He was remarkable in every sense of the word. And I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that I do not have the skills he once had. However, I also know that I carry within myself a deep, moral belief in people. I want my life to involve helping those people to a higher, better society. And in order to do that, I have to jump through the meaningless hoops of speechwriting, of shaking hands with the right people, of putting myself at the mercy of journalists like you.”
Nathaniel paused, sensing a fire at the base of his tongue. “In this case, if you wish to ruin my career, so be it. But know that you’ll be dismissing a man who wants to fight for his countrymen. And that would be a tragedy, in and of itself.”
Chapter 7
Bess felt her lips press tightly together, listening to Lord Linfield’s explanation. As he spoke, he was truly a far different man than the one she’d seen in front of the crowd just the day before. That man had fumbled with his papers, sweated through the back of his shirt and then ambled from the stage, anxious and foggy-brained. This Lord Linfield, seated at the head of his table, spoke to her like the kind of man she’d want at Parliament.
Of course, his good looks were never far from her mind, when regarding him. He was clearly irritated, if not full-on angry, and his thick eyebrows had taken up residency just above his eyes—creating a perpetual frown. She forced herself to breathe, feeling strangely faint in his presence. She was grateful that she’d been so articulate, previously, as she hadn’t fully known how she might react when she arrived at his dinner table and was forced to reckon with the fact of her “lies.”
Lord Linfield and Lady Bess gazed at one another in the silence that followed. Bess could feel Irene’s eyes skate between them analysing the intensity before returning to her turkey below. It had been a long time since anyone had captivated Bess in this manner. His words still rang through the air, almost echoing through her ears. “Know you’ll be dismissing a man who wants to fight for his countrymen …”
Bess crossed her arms over her chest, lifting her chin. She clucked her tongue, then said, in a matter-of-fact voice, “Why, Lord Linfield. That’s more like it.”
Lord Linfield looked perplexed. He reached for his glass of wine and sipped it, keeping his eyes upon her. “What in the world do you mean?”
“I mean, that speech you just gave me. You’re angry, and I understand that. But if only you could bottle that emotion, that volatility, and put it out for the people to see,” Bess continued.
Nathaniel’s nostrils flared. “You can’t possibly understand what it’s like in front of that crowd,” he said.
“Sure. I know that. Speechmaking isn’t for the faint of heart,” Bess said. “But when you spoke, just now, you sounded much like the kind of man those people would listen to. I haven’t heard you sound like that since this all began, you know. So fiery. So filled with adrenaline …”
“So you’re asking me to bottle my anger for you, Miss L.B.,” Nathaniel said, sounding scornful. “And use it with the people?”
Bess shrugged, chuckling to herself. How strange it was to have such power over this man! He seemed to be truly listening to her. She hadn’t been listened to in years. Even Conner and her father had had only a passing interest in what she had to say. She paused, digging her teeth into her bottom lip.
“Now who’s at a loss for words?” Nathaniel said, sounding both accusatory and playful.
Irene chortled beside her, drawing the back of her hand across her lips. Bess cast a rueful glance at Irene, one that she hoped would translate her feelings of strangeness. What in the world was going on?
“It’s not that, Nathaniel,” Bess said, rebounding evenly. “Never at a loss. If you give me a pad of paper right now, I could scribe to you a story of this exact moment. A story with a beginning, and a middle, and an end that we will soon provide.”
“So pompous, thinking that this will have a proper end. I could truly send you to the door right now before you finish your dinner,” Nathaniel said, again teasing her.
“You absolutely could. But wouldn’t that be a remarkable ending to the piece? In my mind, a better insult would be to drag on and on about one boring story or the next. I’d have to make up an ending, and fiction never seems to be as strange or as good as the truth. Don’t you find that, Lord Linfield?”
