The Secretary (7 page)

“How odd to see you here. Do you know I was just thinking of searching out your brother today to enquire after you? Do you live near here? May I walk you home?”

“That’s very flattering, Mr. Whibley,” Clarissa said, blushing a little and trying to remember his other questions. She had never been sought out by a man before. “I do not live nearby, unfortunately, but it’s very kind of you to offer.”

She thought he would say good-bye then, but instead he stared at her for a long moment. He had an open, pleasant face, Clarissa thought, and he seemed charming enough.

At last, Mr. Whibley said, “Miss Martin, this may seem rather untoward, but...would you like to meet me for tea some afternoon next week?”

Clarissa blinked at him. She had so few friends now, but she still did not think it wise to court scandal. “I...I would like that very much, Mr. Whibley. But I don’t think I should. It would not be proper.”

“Then perhaps I might walk you home from church on Sunday?”

She thought about it for a moment. She could see nothing wrong with it, and since Sunday was her free day, she would not have to think of some excuse to absent herself from her duties to Lord Stowe. “I suppose that would be all right. I attend Holy Trinity in Brompton Square.”

He smiled, and it made him look even more charming. “I’ll look forward to it, Miss Martin.” He tipped his hat and was gone. Clarissa breathed a sigh of relief. It made her nervous to have her two lives so close to one another. But she could see no danger in seeing Mr. Whibley again. Her father had been gone a year, and she was out of mourning. Perhaps she deserved to live a little. It would do no harm to let him escort her back from church, and it would not interfere with her duties as Mr. Ford.

Thinking of her alter ego made her realize that if she did not get home and change at once, she would be late to Stowe House. She flagged down a hackney and climbed inside, all thoughts of Mr. Whibley forgotten as she began to mentally review the dossiers she had read the night before.

SIX

January 31, 1833

“So it’s to be Manners-Sutton for Speaker?” Anders asked when Ford found him in the members’ tearoom the next afternoon.

“I have it on good authority,” Ford said, grinning.

“For God’s sake,” Charles Bainbridge, Marquis of Cayleigh swore, “it’s been Manners-Sutton the last, what,
twelve
years? Where’s the suspense in that?”

“I believe it’s been sixteen this year, My Lord,” Ford corrected.

“How you lot find any excitement in this, I’ll never know,” Bainbridge grumbled, stuffing a cucumber sandwich into his mouth as he spoke. Anders smiled. He had known Charles Bainbridge almost as long as he had known Leo, and he still wasn’t sure if there was anything the man
did
find exciting. He seemed to take universal displeasure in everything and everyone he encountered.

Leo, on the other hand, was ever cheerful. He laughed now. “Your turn will come, Bain.”

“As my father has every intention of outliving me, I doubt it will, and for that I remain profoundly grateful to the old man.”

“Unfortunate for us, though, as it deprives us of a member who would be useful to our side.”

“I like that!” Bain cried. “You assume I won’t side with the Tories, then?” Leo shot him a withering look. Bain laughed heartily. “I suppose you’re right.”

“Still, I had thought perhaps the Whigs would manage to oust him this year, what with all that to-do after the Reform Act passed last year,” Anders said, his mind still on the choice of Speaker.

“Do you think we could talk about something other than Parliament for a few moments?” Leo asked.

“We are in the Palace of Westminster tea room,” Anders said. “Don’t you think Parliament is a rather pertinent subject?”

Ford cleared his throat. “If there’s nothing else, My Lord?”

“Yes, yes, go back to your work. I’ll meet you in the lobby after the session.”

“Very good, My Lord.”

When Ford had gone, Bainbridge said, “Bit of a stickler, isn’t he?”

“He’s young still,” Anders said, taking a sip of his tepid tea. “I think he puts a little more stock in the rules than we do.” He looked pointedly at Leo, who had, after all, suggested that the three of them meet here this afternoon.

“Well, then,” Leo said. “I suppose you know that Georgina and Maris are having their come-out this season.”

“Don’t tell us you’ve had their dance cards printed with our names already on them,” Bainbridge groaned. “I don’t mind dancing a few with your sisters, Sidney, but your mother can’t have marked either Stowe or me down as a prospective husband.”

“Actually...”

“Oh, no, Leo. Really?” It was Anders’s turn to groan. The twins were charming girls, but they were just that: girls. Anders knew for a fact that they had barely turned eighteen in October. Indeed, he had been invited down for the house-party to celebrate. During that weekend, both Lady Georgina and Lady Maris had thrown themselves at him—separately, thank God. Still, it was not a scene he wanted replayed, especially given the fact that the girls were eleven years younger than he was and
not
what he considered good candidates for the position of Countess of Stowe.

“I wanted to give you both fair warning,” Leo was saying. “Mother has decided she’ll take no less than a baron for each of them, and since there are few eligible bachelors of rank on the market, her list is rather...short.”

“Lord,” Bainbridge swore again. “I think I’ve already sent my acceptance for their come-out ball.”

“I haven’t,” Anders said, but when Leo shot him a desperate look he added, “but I’ll gladly dance with both your sisters there. Your mother must be patient. I don’t know exactly how many eligible men of rank there are in London this season—”

“Twenty-two,” Leo muttered. “Including the two of you. She told me three times just at breakfast this morning. I think she might even have the list memorized.”

“Well, I’m sure she’ll find someone suitable for each of the girls. Anyway, let your mother worry about that. We’ve more important things to do at the moment.”

“Oh, yes,” Bain said as Leo and Anders rose to return to the House. “Go off and play at kings and governments. I’ll be here, finishing up the cakes.”

True to his word, Lord Stowe met Clarissa in the Peers’ Lobby almost immediately after the session was finished. It had been a rather short affair, as the only matter of business had been Charles Manners-Sutton’s declaration that the choice of Speaker had once more fallen on him, and the traditional speech expressing his humility.

“Could he have been any more obsequious?” Lord Stowe asked as he climbed into the carriage. “He gives that same speech about how he’s not worthy of the post each year. ‘And if His Majesty should be graciously pleased to disapprove’,” he quoted. “I very highly doubt His Majesty cares enough to approve or disapprove the choice of Speaker.”

“But surely he
would
disapprove if a Whig were chosen,” Clarissa said.

“Yes, he would,” Lord Stowe agreed. “But the odds of that happening seem slim now. We all thought there was a chance after the Reform Act passed, but...oh, well. The gears of government will continue to turn, I’m sure. Ford?”

“Yes, My Lord?”

“I’ve been meaning to ask you—did you—that is, do you know Martin’s daughter?”

Clarissa felt as though the bottom of the carriage had dropped out from under her. “Yes,” she managed to squeak. “Yes I do.”

“Does she still live in London, do you know?”

“She does, My Lord.” Clarissa could hear her heart hammering. “In...in Knightsbridge,” she added, instantly cursing herself.

“I was thinking I’d like to visit her. To pay my respects. I had a great deal of admiration for her father. Do you think you could arrange it?”

“I...I suppose so,” Clarissa stammered. “I know she sometimes receives callers on...on Sundays, in the afternoon.”

“Excellent. Does she live with her mother?”

“Oh, no, My Lord. Mrs. Martin died when Miss Martin was quite young, I believe. I don’t think she has any family to speak of.”

“Well, she must be old enough to receive gentlemen alone.”

“I believe she is about my age, My Lord.”

“Well, then...you’ll arrange it?”

“Yes, of course,” Clarissa said. Lord Stowe nodded and turned his gaze out the window. She took a few deep breaths, thankful at least that she had chosen Sunday. At least then she would not have to juggle her two selves at once. But why could she not have lied and said that Jonah Martin had had no children? No, it would not have been wise. Lord Stowe had not asked if Martin
had
a daughter, but if Clarence Ford knew her. He had already heard that Jonah Martin had left behind a child. He just wanted to pay his respects. Well, she would receive him and that would be that. Now she just had to scrape together the funds for tea and cakes.

***

Sunday morning dawned bright and clear, but there was a hint of snow on the wind. Clarissa buttoned her pelisse tightly before leaving for church. It was only as she was locking her door that she remembered Richard Whibley. He would be waiting for her there. For a moment she considered turning right around and hiding in her flat until the afternoon. But she had promised, and though her father might not have approved of her being courted by a young man—he had always said he would rather she not marry at all—he certainly would not have liked her breaking a promise.

Mr. Whibley was, indeed, waiting for her outside Holy Trinity, hat in hand. He smiled when he saw her coming. “Good morning, Miss Martin.”

“Good morning, Mr. Whibley,” she said, returning his smile and taking his arm. He really was a perfectly lovely gentleman, she thought again as he led her into the church and towards a pew. They chatted amiably about the church, which was new-built and had only been consecrated a few years earlier, and about the Parliamentary session.

“I understand the king will make his speech on Tuesday,” Whibley said. “Will you be attending?”

“No,” she said. “I have...another appointment.”

“But your brother will be there.”

“My...yes. Yes he will,” she said, only remembering at that moment that she had said Clarence Ford was her brother. She tried now to remember if she had said her brother’s name was Martin or Ford—or if she had said his name at all. She was beginning to understand why her father had said telling the truth was much easier than lying—there were far fewer details to keep organized.

“I’m surprised he isn’t here today,” Whibley commented, looking around as if Clarissa had concealed him amidst the pews.

“He lives in another part of London, Mr. Whibley, and is much occupied with his duties to the earl.”

“I see,” Whibley said as the organ began to play. He said nothing to her for the rest of the service, for which Clarissa was grateful. It allowed her to concentrate on praying.

Dear Lord,
she thought as they opened their hymnals,
please forgive me for all the lies I have told this week, and all those I will probably tell in the weeks to come.

She was not sure if the Lord heard her.

“Have you met him, then?” Whibley asked as they left the church.

“Met who?”

“The earl.”

“I have not,” Clarissa said. “My brother says he is a good man.”

“I’m glad to hear it. There are few enough of those in Parliament.”

“Really?”

“Indeed. Why, just the other day I was taken to task by Earl Grey himself, and for nothing more than proposing a simple efficiency.”

“What sort of efficiency?” Clarissa asked.

“Well, you see, there are all these tally-sticks left over from decades ago clogging up the storage rooms of the Exchequer.”

“The Exchequer? Whatever for?”

“They were used back in the days when the account-keepers couldn’t read. But now they’re obsolete, of course, and yet no one has disposed of them. So I proposed that we give them out to the poor for fuel.”

“What a splendid idea,” Clarissa said, and she truly meant it. She had learned in just a few days at the Palace of Westminster that efficiency was considered a rude word by some of the members.

“I thought so too, but Earl Grey apparently did not. He thinks the sticks are being kept for some purpose or other, though who knows what. More than likely they’ll end up getting dumped in the Thames.”

“Oh, I hope not,” Clarissa said. They were nearing Trevor Street now. “I must be going, Mr. Whibley. Thank you so much for walking me home.”

“It was my pleasure, Miss Martin. Perhaps you might consider allowing me to escort you home again next Sunday?”

“I would like that very much,” Clarissa said, and she allowed him to kiss her hand before she turned into Trevor Street. Only when she had rounded the corner into the alley did she quicken her pace. There was still a great deal to do, and she expected the earl in just a few short hours.

Anders had worried that Martin’s daughter might be living in some sort of run-down hovel, but Trevor Street turned out to be a rather respectable-looking neighborhood. The building in which Miss Martin lived appeared in good repair, though it took Anders a few moments to find her door. In addition to the time he was expected, Ford had written rather cryptic directions for him on a little slip of paper, and he spent longer than he would have liked staring at the front of the building before he realized that he was supposed to turn down the alley. When he at last found the door, the narrow staircase beyond gave him some pause, and he became even more puzzled when he had gone up two flights without seeing a single flat.

At last he reached the top and knocked on the lone door. It was opened by a rather striking young woman, pale and fair-haired with startling blue eyes. “Miss Martin, I presume,” he said.

“Your Lordship,” the young woman said, smoothing her dress with one hand as she held the door for him. “Please come in.”

Anders did as he was bid, trying not to stare. The few times he had met Jonah Martin, the man had struck him as a classic academic, thin and wiry and squint-eyed. He had expected Martin’s daughter to follow in the vein, right down to the unkempt dark hair and spectacles, but instead he found a beauty—an unrefined beauty, of course, like an uncut diamond, but a diamond nonetheless. He began to think that perhaps it was a mistake to have come alone.