The Secretary Read Free Page B

had made a grave mistake in neglecting Anders’s education. The Earls of Stowe had always been Tories, but Anders was not. He supposed, when he allowed himself time to think about such trivial hypothetical situations, that if his uncle and not his mother had raised him, things might have turned out differently. But in that tiny village in Devon, Anders had had a far more liberal upbringing than his uncle might have wished, and had chosen to break with the age-old tradition of his line and side with the Whigs instead. He would have imagined Uncle Frederick turning over in his grave if the idea had given him any pleasure, but it did not. He held no grudges against his uncle—though the man had neglected Anders and his mother after the death of his younger brother, he had done nothing malicious or wrong. He had simply chosen to leave well enough alone, for which Anders usually felt grateful. It was only at times like this that he wished he had had more time to learn the ropes of this treacherous world before being thrust upon the stage.
    He had met with mild success at least during his first two years in the House of Lords. But now he was no longer the young pup the others had perceived him to be. He had allies. He also had enemies. And he had goals—he had a vision. If that vision was to be achieved, he needed help.
    He had done what he guessed was about forty lengths when he noticed a dark figure at the edge of the pool. When he came up for a breath, the figure spoke.
    “My Lord.” It was Phelps. Anders put out one hand to stop himself against the edge of the pool and flipped his head back, water spraying satisfyingly over the two men who stood waiting. Phelps didn’t flinch. The newcomer did.
    Anders blinked and stared at the young man standing beside his butler. He really was an extraordinary-looking creature. His ill-fitting suit was threadbare and worn, the elbows shiny and the cuffs beginning to fray—or perhaps they had just been poorly hemmed. His shirt, however, was startlingly white, as if it had never been worn before, and his shoes had been shined recently. Despite the fact that he had clearly been wearing the nondescript suit for quite some time, he looked uncomfortable in the clothing—or perhaps he was afraid of water?
    It was only then that Anders remembered that he was naked, though the water covered him up to his waist. Phelps, of course, had the wherewithal to be completely unperturbed by his master’s nudity, but the young man must be embarrassed.
    “My apologies,” Anders muttered as Phelps handed him a dry towel. He wrapped it around himself as he emerged from the pool. “I am not usually disturbed here.”
    Phelps continued to look unruffled. “I must apologise, My Lord. But this young man was most insistent, and I thought, given the circumstances, it would be better for him to see you at once.”
    Anders looked the man up and down—or, rather, just down. He was quite small, the top of his head barely level with Anders’s chin. And he could not have been more than twenty-two. What could such an inconsequential looking youth want with him?
    The boy cleared his throat. “My name is…is…”
    “You do know your own name, don’t you?” Anders demanded, feeling peeved at having his swim interrupted.
    “Clarence Ford, My Lord.”
    “To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit, Mr. Ford?”
    “I…well, perhaps it could wait until you are…until you are not…”
    “Oh, for the love of everything holy, Mr. Ford, just spit it out!”
    “I understand you are in search of a secretary, My Lord.”
    Anders stared at the little man, not quite comprehending. Phelps’s face was a mask of stoic impassivity. If this was a joke, it was being pulled off beautifully. But then, Phelps had never played a joke in his life. He had told Anders as much himself the day they had first met.
    “How do you come to understand such a thing?” Anders asked. He glanced quickly at Phelps. “Do we have a gossip