The Secretary by Meg Brooke Page A

be few people about the Palace of Westminster at this late hour. She found the key Lord Stowe had given her and buttoned her pelisse.
    As she rode back to Westminster, she wondered about the parties Lord Stowe would attend that evening. There would be other members there, of course, and she was sure he would spend most of his time cloistered in smoky sitting rooms with them, arguing the case for the important work Brougham planned. But there would also be ladies there, women in beautiful gowns with elegant hairstyles and tinkling laughs. Would he flirt with them? She wondered if there was a young lady he was pursuing. He had said he was five years older than her, and twenty-nine was a ripe old age for an unmarried, titled gentleman. Was he searching for a bride?
    Where did that thought come from ? she wondered. But she could not lie to herself. He was an attractive—no, attractive was not descriptive enough—he was a dangerously handsome man, with his dark, Roman beauty and knowing grins. When he had tossed her those coins, Clarissa had blushed not because of the poor condition of her clothes but because it meant that he had been looking at her, studying her appearance. In a way she was glad that under even such thorough scrutiny she appeared to be no more than a smallish young man. But in another corner of her mind lurked the disappointment she felt at knowing he would never see her as a woman. She was, of course, too far below his social station to attract his notice for long, but if their paths had crossed before, when her father still lived, she wondered if he would have found her pretty. Would he have flirted with her at a garden party? Would they have passed each other in Hyde Park?
    Stop it , she told herself. Stop it now. This is foolish . What would her father say if he could see her now? He had always taught her that she was more than her emotions, that even though she was a woman she could overcome her feelings and be the equal of any man. But if she wanted to do that, she had to focus her mind on the work. She forced herself to think only of the dossier waiting at Westminster. The hackney was stopping now, and she paid the driver to wait and slipped out.
    Inside, the halls were empty. She stood in the Chancellor’s corridor a moment, trying to remember her way. She turned a corner, knew instantly she had made the wrong choice, and turned back.
    “May I be of service, miss?” a man asked as he appeared around the corner.
    “Oh,” she said, only now remembering that she was dressed as herself, and not as Clarence Ford. It had been a mistake to come here as a woman. But there was nothing for it. “I...my brother is secretary to Lord Stowe,” she lied. “He left some papers in the office and asked me to come back for them. I have his key here,” she added, holding out her hand.
    The man looked at the key and said, “I believe I know the way. Allow me to introduce myself. Richard Whibley, Clerk of the Works.” He held out his hand. Clarissa took it.
    “Clarissa Martin,” she said, and instantly wished she hadn’t. But Whibley looked like an amiable fellow, and she would just have to hope he didn’t mention seeing her to anyone.
    “Well, Miss Martin, follow me.”
    When they reached the offices, Clarissa felt rather foolish for not having found her own way. But she thanked Whibley, who muttered something about tally sticks and disappeared. The folio safely in hand, she slipped back out of the building and into the waiting hackney.
     
    “So Brougham thinks he has the support to carry the abolition measure, does he?” Leo asked as he and Anders found seats in Earl Grey’s drawing room that evening.
    “Apparently.”
    “Fortuitous, then, you finding Martin’s secretary just now.”
    “Why do you say that?” Anders asked, taking a sip of the excellent brandy His Lordship kept on the sideboard.
    “Jonah Martin,” Leo said, staring into his own glass, “knew more about the slave trade than almost