Page 27 of The Secret Identity of the Lord's Aide
Bess didn’t have to explain her feelings to Irene. Didn’t have to verbalise the event of meeting with the ex-debutantes, several of whom Irene had known, back in their Season. Rather, Bess could dismiss the memory, exchanging it for a forkful of apple pie, a bit of wine, a bit of laughter. In Irene’s eyes, she was nowhere near perfect. But she wasn’t the disgraced daughter of Thomas Byrd, nor was she the lost little debutante and ex-fiance of Conner Garvey. Rather, she was simply herself—Bess, better known as her pen name, L.B. And perhaps that was enough, for now.
Chapter 13
Lady Elizabeth and Irene reached the exterior grounds of Lord Linfield’s estate the following evening. Bess immediately fell silent as she looked up at the grand house, her breath catching. Irene was in the midst of complaining about yet another writer at The Rising Sun. “He simply doesn’t understand the English language. I mean, I don’t even know where my head was when I gave him the job …”
The carriage crackled along the cobblestones of the driveway. Lord Linfield’s grand house reminded Bess a great deal of her father’s before they’d lost it. It gleamed beneath the early moonlight. Willow trees swept around out front, casting their leaves to and fro like whips. For a moment, Bess was lost in memory of waiting in her father’s home, gazing out the window. Watching for Conner’s arrival.
To her surprise, Lord Linfield and Richard were awaiting the women near the front of the house. Bess’s heart fluttered when her eyes met with his. He reached forth, drawing the door of her carriage open and helping her to the ground below. His hand over hers was warm and powerful. She hadn’t been given such assistance, not since Conner. Not since her debutante days.
She’d just simply thought those days of being regarded as a beautiful, worthy woman were over.
And perhaps they were.
She watched as Lord Linfield performed a similar action with Irene, helping her to the cobblestones below. Irene grinned at him, flashing white teeth. “Wonderful manners, Lord Linfield,” she teased. “Who taught those to you?”
“Good evening, ladies,” Lord Linfield said. “You remember my dear friend, Richard,” he continued, reminding his existence to Irene.
Irene, Bess, and Richard all bowed their chins to their chests in greeting. They walked the little path to the front steps of the house before a maid in a little white hat opened the door for them. As Bess entered the foyer, she was conscious that this was becoming a kind of routine: coming to Lord Linfield’s home, for dinner and conversation.
She reminded herself that one day this sort of thing would end. That he would learn all he needed to for his presentations. That she would deliver his speeches by post, or through Richard, and he would deliver her cheques in the same way. They were little more than employer and employee.
She had to remember that.
“Shall we have a bit of an exercise before dinner?” Bess asked, twirling towards Lord Linfield, forcing her eyebrows high.
Lord Linfield sputtered slightly. “I suppose dinner isn’t for another 45 minutes to an hour …”
“Wonderful,” Bess said, snapping her palms together. “Where shall we rehearse?”
Lord Linfield led them towards a sitting room on the far side of the right wing of the house. The room was immaculate: blue and white wallpaper pressed against the wall, high-backed chairs on either side of the fireplace, a painting taller than Bess herself on the far wall.
Upon entering, Richard and Irene sat in the chairs near the fireplace. The fire already roared, and Irene sneaked her feet closer to it, giving Bess a mischievous smile. Richard’s eyes traced down Irene’s ankle. His face didn’t change, although Bess suspected he was shocked. Shocked at the white flesh, so revealing.
Bess wondered why Richard wasn’t married. Why he’d arrived at Lord Linfield’s home and remained there as a kind of right-hand man, somewhere between servant and friend. What had happened in his life?
Of course, she sensed Lord Linfield thought similar things about her.
“Shall we begin?” Bess asked, forcing a smile.
Lord Linfield pressed the door closed and turned to her, his eyebrows stitched together. “I can’t imagine for a moment what you’d like me to say, to begin,” he said.
Bess slotted her hand into a side pocket and drew out the new speech she’d written him. “I’ve created two copies,” she said, passing him one. “I want you to study the first paragraph and read it out to me. Do it the way you might address a full room of people. All your greatest friends, all your family members, all looking to you for the best story on Christmas Day.”
Nathaniel unfolded the pages of the new speech. Bess was surprised to note that his hands shook as he opened it. Was he really so anxious around only her, with Irene and Richard waiting in the wings?
“Good afternoon,” Nathaniel began, his eyes glossy.
“A bit brighter. Make sure you keep your chin up,” Bess said, crossing her arms over her chest.
Nathaniel did as he was told, asserting his voice a bit more. When he looked up, he caught Bess’s eye once more. She felt a shiver in her stomach, but she forced it away, pushing herself to pay attention to the way Nathaniel articulated the speech.
“You’re slumping as you speak. More and more. I noticed it during each of your speeches,” Bess said, cutting in as he tried to turn to the second page.
Lord Linfield rolled his eyes slightly. The corners of his mouth shivered as if he was forcing himself not to smile. He stood a bit taller, spreading his legs out wider. But as he spoke, he sped up, his words falling over and over one another. His lips fumbled.
“Stop, stop, stop!” Bess said. She stepped closer, slashing her arms through the air in front of her. “You’re like an out of control carriage,” she said, chuckling. “Can’t you hear how fast you’re going?”
“I haven’t changed at all,” Lord Linfield said, sounding obstinate.
