Page 21 of The Secret Identity of the Lord's Aide
Five minutes later, he finished, out of breath yet thrilled. And when he looked up, the crowd responded in turn: applauding him without jeering. Their faces were stoic, more sure of him than they’d been before.
Had he done it? Had he finally orchestrated a proper speech?
He marched from the stage, crumpling up the pages of the speech once more and slipping them into his pocket. When he reached the ground, several people reached up and grabbed his shoulder, shaking him back and forth. “Terribly wonderful to see you today, Lord Linfield,” one man said, his voice jocular. “Truly your father’s son.”
Nathaniel realised he’d forgotten to check in on Lady Elizabeth before he’d exited the stage. He thanked the gentleman and then turned his face back towards the crowd, looking for her hat. But she’d been lost to the sea of them, overshadowed. Already, another speaker was taking the stage.
“My boy, that was quite a show,” a voice said from behind him.
Nathaniel spun quickly, discovering one of his father’s oldest, best friends—the immaculately dressed Lord Henry Stevenson, a man whose estate was only about a five-minute carriage drive from Lord Linfield’s own. Nathaniel shot his hand out to shake Henry’s, giving the man a broad smile. He supposed he hadn’t seen him since his father’s funeral. But he shoved away those memories, choosing to stay in his current high.
“Thank you for saying so. It truly means a great deal, coming from you,” Lord Linfield said.
Henry stuck a cigar between his flat cheeks and offered one to Nathaniel. Nathaniel accepted, leaning close to draw the tip of it to Henry’s flashing match.
“You know, son, I’ve been meaning to make a call on you,” Henry said.
“Oh?” Nathaniel puffed at his cigar, drawing the air tight into his lungs.
“We’ll be holding a dinner and ball a fortnight from now, you see,” Henry continued. “And perhaps your mother has told you, I have two daughters in the current Season.”
“Ah, the Season,” Nathaniel said, forcing himself to grin. “You sound like my mother.”
“Lord Linfield, my boy, you know a man is only as good as his wife,” Henry said. “At least, that’s what my Lady always reminds me.”
“Absolutely, sir,” Lord Linfield said.
People continued to grab Nathaniel’s shoulder, shaking him with excitement. Lord Linfield turned his head around, trying to greet each of them, but failing. It was all moving too quickly.
“I believe it’s high time you met my eldest, Tiffany,” Lord Henry said, his eyes growing bleary behind the smoke. “I know your father would have been thrilled at the prospect of our families joining. And what’s the hurt? Having your face at one of my balls—the new face of the Tory party? I simply can’t imagine a better advertisement, for either you or my family. Please. Say you’ll come.”
Lord Linfield had seen Lady Tiffany before, had even felt a tug at his heart for her beauty. But as he nodded to Lord Henry—agreeing that it was, indeed, a proper idea—he couldn’t help thinking back to Lady Elizabeth, standing somewhere in the crowd with her pen in hand. Lady Elizabeth, who’d written the words he’d mucked up.
Lady Elizabeth, a woman who would never appear at any of these balls or dinners.
He wondered why.
“That’s my boy,” Lord Henry said, his voice growing bouncier. “Looking forward to seeing your handsome face there. A twin to your father, although I’m sure you hear it all the time. Could have been born at the same time.”
Chapter 11
Lord Linfield felt as though he was floating through time. He felt high from the compliments, from the pats on the back, from the affirmation that he truly was “his father’s son.” When he spotted Richard after the speeches concluded for the afternoon, Richard himself bowed his head and agreed that he’d done absolutely miraculously. He didn’t mention the flub at the beginning, the way the crowd had turned their back before turning fully around. Perhaps it would go unremembered. Perhaps it was like a bad dream.
That evening, Lord Linfield walked towards the dinner table, and couldn’t help hearing Richard speaking in dull tones to his mother. He paused at the doorway, careful to keep his shadow out of view, and leaned his head against the wall to listen.
“Really, Lady Eloise, you must know. He was a good deal stronger today than previous speeches. I really think he’s coming into his own,” Richard said.
Lord Linfield rolled his eyes towards the back of his head, feeling a glimmer of shame. So, Richard had been reporting back the events of each speech to his mother—his mother who hadn’t attended a single speech, thinking it, instead, a man’s afternoon out?
“I really think he’d do better attending to the Season,” his mother murmured. “I can’t handle the fact of him, single and alone when I leave this world.”
“You mustn’t think that way,” Richard affirmed. “You know our Nathaniel. I, for the previous few years, and you—well.”
“Since his birth,” Lady Eloise said, almost scoffing.
“Precisely. He was never going to be content with just any life. He was always going to want something much bigger,” Richard said.
Lord Linfield felt a bit deflated knowing that his mother still scorned the idea of his run to Parliament. But it lit a fire beneath him, one he transferred to the dinner table. He talked endlessly about the speech, about the afternoon he had, even offering the small tidbit regarding the upcoming ball. This, of course, made his mother’s cheeks glow pink with happiness.
