Page 36 of The Secret Identity of the Lord's Aide
Chapter 17
“Now, didn’t you hear it?” Bess said, her voice a kind of sing-song. “The way you fumbled over those last few words. Nobody in the audience would have any sense what you were saying, My Lord. You can’t possibly subsist on your good looks alone. The people want substance. And you must begin giving it to them.”
Lord Linfield gaped at her for a moment, seemingly ill-prepared to be spoken to in such a manner. But in response, Bess lifted her chin with defiance. “You hired me to help you, didn’t you?” she asked.
“Certainly. I didn’t hire you to belittle me,” Lord Linfield said.
But a spark behind his eyes hinted at his cleverness, at his teasing her directly back. Bess shifted, drawing her eyes to the horizon. They were walking through the grounds at Lord Linfield’s estate, with Richard and Lady Margaret, Bess’s friend from the shelter, marching along behind them. Bess had had to ask for Lady Margaret’s assistance, as Irene was bogged down at the newspaper and couldn’t accompany Bess to Lord Linfield’s estate. “Besides, it’s such a bore there,” Irene had sighed, her hair all frizzy and wild as she toiled over a stack of papers. “What a bore, isn’t it, that we must be constantly monitored? And you, at 28 years old! Practically a hag!”
But the rules of propriety had to be upheld. Besides, having Lady Margaret or Irene with her made Lady Elizabeth far more certain of herself. If she was alone with Lord Linfield, she felt apt to float away from her own thoughts, fearful and unsure what she might blare out. For it was absolutely true that she was frequently awash with feelings for him. Feelings she couldn’t completely monitor.
It was better to be his instructor. Better to uphold this level over him.
“Do it again,” she said, her nostrils flared.
Lord Linfield sighed heavily. He shot his hand into his pocket and drew out a slip of paper, the paper on which Bess had strummed up yet another speech. Bess knew he hadn’t bothered to memorise it completely, as she’d instructed, and this made her heart shimmer with a strange mix of anger and happiness. He needed her. God, he needed her more than he could possibly translate—not with money or words. At least, Bess liked to think so.
Lord Linfield began to speak once more, muttering and fumbling over words. Bess again shuddered, shaking her head.
“Slower. Slower.” She sighed. “It’s simply impossible to make you listen, isn’t it?”
“Again with the insults!” Lord Linfield complained. “It’s not as though you have to stand up in front of a hundred people in central London and exhibit your opinions, do you? I’d like to see you up there, Lady Elizabeth. Like to see you take the stage.”
“I’d do it gladly, if only to uphold my belief in the Judgement of Death Act,” Bess said, her eyes flashing.
Nathaniel paused for a long moment. Bess recognised that she’d hit a rough patch with him. Since their arrangement, they hadn’t yet discussed anything regarding the Judgement of Death Act—not the fact that he was staunchly opposed, and not the fact that she needed him to be “for” it if they were going to continue their arrangement. Lord Linfield folded up the page of his speech, blinking at her. Lady Margaret, somewhere behind, let out a small, low gasp. Bess had told Lady Margaret about the situation with Lord Linfield, and Lady Margaret had told Bess she thought her to be one of the bravest women she’d known in her life.
“A woman running for Parliament,” Lord Linfield said, his voice filled with irony. “How very strange to think of that. It’s almost as ridiculous as a woman, say, writing for the newspaper. A working woman. What will the world consider next?”
Bess’s lips crept into a smile. But just as she began to speak, they heard a strange howling from somewhere just to the right—perhaps fifteen or so trees deep into the woods. Bess smacked her hand over her chest, her eyes wide. “What on earth?”
Lord Linfield turned quickly, his motions agile. “My goodness, that sounds like Barney,” he whispered before rushing forward and diving between the trees.
Bess didn’t wait to follow him. She tore directly at his heels, listening as the whine from the forest escalated, growing tighter and more insistent. She stumbled slightly in the forest underbrush, nearly knocking her head against a tree branch. Lord Linfield was quick, his long legs easing through the fog.
“Bess! Wait!” Lady Margaret cried somewhere behind her. “Please, be careful!”
But Bess sensed alertness in Nathaniel, something that told her that this whine was cause for serious alarm. She remembered mention of a dog, a dog that had Nathaniel’s entire heart. A dog named Barney. Bess wouldn’t be able to live with it if something had happened to him.
Seconds later, Nathaniel dropped to his knees. Bess stumbled forward, nearly falling into Nathaniel. She hadn’t realised she could possibly run that quickly. She fell to the side, against a tree, huffing. There, before them, was a gorgeous hunting dog—with long white and black and brown hair, a tender, snivelling nose, and bright blue eyes that turned around and around anxiously.
Blood spurted up along one of the back paws and legs. Bess looked closer, noting that his leg had been latched by a horrific-looking hunting trap. It gleamed in the sunlight, torturous and spiked.
“My goodness!” Bess whispered, her voice harsh. “Who on earth would put a hunting trap so close to your home?”
But Nathaniel was too flustered to answer. His eyebrows stitched tight over his eyes as he drew his hand over the dog’s quivering body. “It’s all right, my boy,” he murmured. “We’ll get you out of this in no time. You’ll be fine. You’ll be absolutely fine.”
Nathaniel’s massive hands stretched the hunting trap open, a motion that made him grunt and close his eyes. The split second that he released the dog’s leg, the dog sprung up and then collapsed on the other side of a dead tree branch splayed across the ground. Lord Linfield tried to close the hunting trap, but as he did it, a spike stitched itself into his finger. Blood sprung up across his skin and then drew a long line along his arm.
But it seemed that Nathaniel didn’t notice it, didn’t feel the pain. He erupted back to his feet and walked towards the dog, which let out a whine once more. He drew his arms beneath the dog, lifting him into his arms. Then, he turned around to discover Bess, watching. He seemed shocked to see her, as if she was an animal in the woods. His mouth parted. Blood continued to drip down his arm from his cut. It seemed to be much thicker than Bess had initially assumed.
“He’s hurt,” Nathaniel said simply as if this wasn’t already clear.
“So are you,” Bess murmured. She reached down and tore a piece of fabric from the bottom of her dress. Then, she moved forward slowly, her eyes upon the gash on Lord Linfield’s finger. She touched his skin softly, tenderly, knowing that this was strange—this touching. But it had to be done.
“We’ll just wrap it until we can get you inside,” she said.
Lord Linfield winced as she tied up the fabric. Immediately, the fabric grew dark red and damp with his blood. “I have to get him out of the forest,” Lord Linfield said, speaking of the dog at their feet. “You’re correct in wondering who would put a trap so close to the house. I can’t imagine anything worse. I’m grateful it didn’t capture a child, but …” He trailed off, gasping for breath.
