The Secretary (3 page)

“Oh, no, My Lord,” Mr. Ford said, looking even more terrified than before. “No, I came by the information…well, not quite honestly, but certainly through no fault of anyone in your employ.”

“And I surmise that you are here to offer your services.”

“Such as they are, My Lord.”

Anders raised one eyebrow in a way he knew made him look rather imposing. “Hardly an enthusiastic proposal, Mr. Ford.”

The youth blushed and looked down at his shoes. His hair was not quite blonde, Anders realized—there was a hint of red in his short-cropped locks. He had never seen such a color on a man. Now that he looked carefully he saw that the boy had a thin moustache, too. Perhaps he was proud of the pathetic thing. “I have…lost my previous employer, My Lord, but—”

“Lost? Did you misplace him?”

Mr. Ford’s eyes met his, and Anders could have sworn there were tears in them. “He died, My Lord. But before he did, he was one of the best men in the House of Commons.”

“Commons, eh?”

“Yes, My Lord.”

“And who was this illustrious man?”

“Jonah Martin, My Lord.”

Anders felt a wave of shock. “I knew Jonah Martin. He died rather suddenly, didn’t he? Hit by a carriage?”

“Yes, My Lord. It was quite sudden. So sudden that he did not have time to leave me a reference. However, I assure you I was a good secretary to him. I helped him rise to the position he held when he died. He was quite a prominent member, if you recall.”

“Of course I recall. I dealt with him myself several times.”

“I am aware of that fact, My Lord.”

“I don’t remember ever meeting you.”

“The best secretaries, My Lord, are neither seen nor heard,” Ford said, smiling mischievously. He looked more...charismatic when he smiled. His teeth were very white. Anders looked him up and down again, then looked at Phelps, who shrugged noncommittally. Finally, Anders sighed.

“Leave your direction with Phelps. I would like to think about it for a day.”

Ford looked displeased, but he said, “Very well, My Lord.” Then he turned to follow Phelps out. His shoulders were slumped in defeat. Anders felt an unfamiliar surge of pity.

“Wait a moment, Mr. Ford,” he called. The young man turned. “Perhaps we could agree on a...a trial period.”

“My Lord?” Ford looked confused.

“One month. You give me thirty days, and at the end we’ll come to a decision. You may not enjoy working for me, after all.” Anders decided not to mention the fact that he had only had one secretary who had lasted longer than a month.

Ford beamed. “When would you like me to start?”

Anders ignored the glare from Phelps. “As soon as I have some decent clothes on.”

When Lord Stowe had gone, the butler led Clarissa upstairs. She was just grateful to get out of that bizarre room and away from the image she was sure was burned in her mind of the earl in it.

He had been
naked
in that pool—utterly and completely naked. Clarissa’s mind raced. She had been carefully raised, of course, though perhaps a little less rigidly than other girls. She had been allowed to read treatises on anatomy and physiology, and she knew—in theory—what men’s bodies looked like. But she had never seen a man in the altogether, and especially not one who was so impressive. She didn’t have to be told that all men did not have that sort of physique: chiseled muscles, tall, lean frame, and...well, she wouldn’t think about the rest or she would blush, and that would never do. Men’s bodies had never made her feel quite so uneasy before, though she reminded herself now that she had seen them only in the pages of the books she had had free access to in her father’s library. Seeing an
actual
naked man was quite different. She had been unable to view the situation clinically, as she had been taught.

Truly, how she had not managed to turn on her heel and bolt she did not know, but she was feeling exceedingly proud of her performance as Clarence Ford, secretary. All except the part where she had forgotten her pseudonym. And the part where she had almost cried.
And
the part where she had made it seem as though she were not a qualified secretary. Perhaps, she thought to herself as she followed Phelps up the stairs, it had not gone as well as it might. But he had hired her. He had taken her on. She would not starve, nor would she have to vacate her flat. She said a silent prayer of thanks now for this incredible twist of fate.

She had not even expected to get an interview for a few weeks. Indeed, she had only gone to that pub intending to test out her disguise. An hour’s outing among gentlemen, she had thought, would be the ideal place to see if she could pass as one of their number, and it had been going rather well when she had heard a snippet of conversation behind her.

“The earl fired you?” a man asked.

“Really, Tommy, I was planning to quit anyway.”

“Yes, but just before the session begins? How will he find another secretary so soon?” Clarissa had frozen, not daring to turn around.

“I can’t say that I care,” the recently fired man said. “He’s an ogre, Tommy, a real beast. Do you know he actually expected me to deliver messages at two in the morning? When I told him I was exhausted he suggested I sleep on a cot in the antechamber of his office at Westminster.”

“Did he give you a reference?”

“No, but that doesn’t matter. I’ve got plenty of others, and the agency will find me another place soon.”

“Not one as good as the Earl of Stowe, I’ll wager.”

“Perhaps not, but titles don’t mean everything. They certainly don’t in his case.”

“He can’t be that bad. Perhaps I’ll go along to Stowe House and offer my services.”

Clarissa had not even bothered to glance at the men. She had slammed her coin down on the rail, grabbed her hat and fled the pub.

Her next stop had been Stowe House.

“His Lordship’s study, sir,” the butler said now, throwing open the doors to the first room at the top of the stairs. Clarissa looked back down at the opulent foyer through which they had come before entering the study, which was also beautifully decorated, though, just like the foyer, about twenty years out-of-date.

The fine furniture that filled the study was nearly invisible to Clarissa, however, because of what sat in one corner. “This is Lord Stowe’s desk?” she inquired. She didn’t have to turn to sense the stony nod of the butler. “I see.”

Though she didn’t see at all. Lord Stowe had seemed to her a man of capability and efficiency, as if everything in his life were orderly. But his desk said otherwise. Clarissa’s father had taught her that the space in which a man did his business told a great deal, that he had often been able to judge a man’s political sensibilities just from the way he kept his office. This room told her that Lord Stowe was not the organized, sensible person she had thought he was. For one thing, the desk was in a dark, dingy corner, while the rest of the room appeared to be set up as a sitting room, with a divan and chairs, sideboard, and tea table. In a way Clarissa was glad the desk had been parked in that dingy corner, because it made the chaos atop it a little less striking. Still, when she crossed the room to survey the work that lay before her, she could not help but suck in an involuntary breath of shock and dismay. She wondered what other conclusions she might be able to reach when she actually dove into the disorder that reigned atop the elegant desk. “How...how long has His Lordship been without a secretary?” she asked, wondering if she had misunderstood the man in the pub.

Phelps looked at his pocket-watch. “Four hours, sir.”

“Um. I see.”

“Would you like to tour the rest of the house now, Mr. Ford?”

Clarissa shook her head. “No, I think I’d better get started.”

THREE

“Is this really wise, My Lord?” Phelps asked as he helped Anders into his coat. Being a bachelor, Anders ran a small household. He had never had a valet before coming to the earldom, and Phelps had filled in for what was supposed to have been a month. It had been two years now, and they had settled into a comfortable routine. Anders was not sure if he would like another valet as much as he appreciated Phelps. Besides, with the endless parade of secretaries, he had enough upheaval in his life.

Indeed, besides his consistency, one of the things he most prized about his butler was the man’s ability to refrain from asking impertinent questions—a gift he seemed to have momentarily lost. “I don’t know,” Anders replied impatiently. “But I need
someone
, and he’s here. It’s not as if an agency would send me another man so quickly. It’s just for a month.”

“Yes, of course, My Lord, but—”

“No, no ‘buts’, Phelps. Let’s just see how he does.”

Phelps sighed as he finished brushing the shoulders of the fine green morning coat. “Of course, My Lord.”

Anders swept out of the room and down the hall to his study. When he got there, however, he almost turned around again, convinced he had walked into the wrong room. Only the presence of Clarence Ford made him pause.

The room looked completely different.

For one thing, the desk had been moved from the corner to the center of the room, below the bank of windows. His chair had been relocated to the side of the desk facing the door, instead of away from it. And another small table had been set to the left of his desk at an ‘L’, all the papers that had been heaped on his own desk now arranged on the new table in neat piles.

“How long was I gone?” Anders asked.

Ford produced a battered pocket-watch. “Twenty minutes?”

“What did you do?”

“I organized. Your desk was in a dreadful state. Do you know I found half a scone under one of those piles, and a cold, half-empty cup of tea under another? I’m amazed you haven’t attracted mice,” Ford added with a shudder.

“Are you afraid of mice, Mr. Ford?”

“No,” the man said, rather too quickly.

“Well, in any case, I’m glad there weren’t any. I hardly have time to deal with a rodent infestation at the moment.” Anders crossed the room and surveyed the new arrangement. “Why have you moved my desk?”

“I noticed that you squinted at me, downstairs. I thought more direct light might be...might be beneficial.”

“I see. Bring another chair over here, please, and sit down.”

Ford crossed the room and picked up the Hepplewhite chair near the door. Not without some difficulty he carried it over, though Anders noticed he waited to drop into it until he himself had been seated.

“We have not discussed terms, Mr. Ford.”

“Indeed, My Lord.”

“Your salary will be six pounds a week. Is that sufficient?”

From the look on Ford’s face, it was more than sufficient.

“Very well. You will arrive here no later than eight each morning, except Sundays, which you and I will both have free. I work through the day and sometimes the night. I will expect you to accompany me when I go to Westminster, to run errands and deliver important documents, and to arrange my schedule each day. You will coordinate my appointments with Phelps and the household staff to ensure there are no conflicts. Does this sound as though it is within the realm of your...abilities?”

Ford looked quite serious. “Of course, My Lord.”

“How old are you, Mr. Ford?”

“Twenty-four, My Lord.”

“Older than I thought. How many years were you secretary to Mr. Martin?”

Ford appeared to think for a moment. “Six, My Lord.”

“Eighteen is rather young to go to work for a Member of Parliament.”

“Yes,” Ford agreed, but he offered no details. “Might I ask you a few questions before we begin, My Lord?”

Anders leaned back in his chair. “Ask away.”

“How long have you been in the House of Lords?”

“Since my uncle passed away two years ago. I took his seat, you see, along with the title. This will be my third session.”

“Do you attend the entire session?”

“I do,” Anders said, trying not to be offended by the question. He knew that most peers his age—indeed, most peers of any age—did not take their seats in the House, but he could hardly help that. If he did not have organizational skills or the ability to devote himself to many tasks at once, he did have a sense of duty, on which he prided himself.

“And do you have an office at Westminster as well as this one?”

Anders laughed at the slightly apprehensive tone of Ford’s voice. “I do, but don’t worry, Ford, this is the only disaster you’ll have to deal with. I do most of my thinking here, in this study, and take only what I need to my rooms at Westminster. You’ll see why when we go there.”

“Very good, My Lord. Your political views I have mostly ascertained from your writings,” Ford said, inclining his head toward the neat piles on the table, “but there is one more thing I would like to know, if you’ll permit me.”

“Of course.”

“Where do you stand on the slavery question?”

Without hesitation, Anders said, “I am for complete and total abolition.”

Ford nodded silently.

“Does that satisfy you?” Another silent nod. Anders sighed. “Very well. Explain to me how you have organized these papers,” he said, gesturing to the table.

It was nearly midnight when Clarissa finally left Stowe House. When Phelps shut the door behind her she felt a momentary twinge of fear at the thought of walking home alone in the dark, but then she remembered that she was not Clarissa Martin but Clarence Ford, nondescript secretary. It was ten minutes’ walk back to her flat on Trevor Street, and she set out at a brisk but natural pace. She would not draw attention to herself. She had managed not to do so all day.

Indeed, she mused as she made her way past the elegant mansions towards the more modest part of Belgravia, she thought she had managed to fit in rather well. She knew that Lord Stowe had seen the bare patches on the elbows of her father’s suit, but she told herself that they were fitting for a secretary who had been out of work for almost a year. Anyway, with what he was paying her, she could afford to buy some new clothes. Six pounds a week! It was more than enough to pay back Mr. Parkhurst. Perhaps she would even throw in a little extra for her indulgent landlord. Clarissa knew how lucky she was to have found the little flat in Knightsbridge. When the constable had appeared on her doorstep with his hat in hand a year ago, bearing the news that her father had been killed so suddenly and terribly, she had discovered that the life of relative luxury they had lived had come at a heavy price. The rent on the house where they had lived near Piccadilly had been more than he could manage on his salary. There was next to nothing in the bank, and what little there was after the other debts had been paid off would have to be lived on for quite some time. The dresses and bonnets and shoes she had frivolously purchased had suddenly seemed a wasteful extravagance. Her father had been right when he had argued with her about them, and she had looked at them with loathing as she had piled them on the counter of a consignment shop, where she had sold most of the finer things, including some of her father’s wardrobe. But it still had not proved enough to support her. She had not been able to understand it at first. Her father had always seemed to her a man of great sense. But she had come to realize that he had been a man of great intelligence, which was not the same. Being a genius had not made him capable of making good choices. He had wanted to give his daughter the world, and to this day Clarissa still felt a deep stab of guilt in her heart when she thought of how much he had sacrificed to make her life happy and carefree.