Free The Secretary by Meg Brooke

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.
    “Would you care for tea?” Miss Martin was asking. She gestured to a rather worn armchair as she took a seat on an equally well-used divan.
    “Yes, thank you.” He waited as she poured for both of them, trying to get comfortable in the lumpy chair. As put the pot down he