Page 11 of The Secret Word (Twist Upon a Regency Tale #10)

“We are not amazed, Mr. Satterthwaite,” said Mr. Stephen. “You were already a gentleman. We merely provided the clothing that made it obvious.”

Chris was not so certain. The son and grandson of villains raised in a gambling den? A gentleman? If he was accepted as one because of his clothing, did that make it true?

Perhaps it didn’t matter. After all, while working for Billy, he’d met any number of men who were highly regarded in Society but whose behavior out of the public eye was hardly gentlemanly.

Another—more important—thought occurred as he donned his new hat and made his way out into the street, because for what other reason was he amassing this new wardrobe and expenses: What would Clem think of his new look?

*

Clem was looking out the parlor window and saw Chris arrive. And Mr. Bagshaw, of course, but it was Chris who was driving and Chris who, as always, caught her eye. He drew the horses up in front of the house and sat a moment longer, saying something to Mr. Bagshaw as he handed over the reins.

There was something different about Chris today.

He looked more put-together, somehow. Wealthier.

More aristocratic. Perhaps it was the hat.

He had been wearing a softer lower hat each time she’d seen him before, but today he wore the same kind of hat as Mr. Bagshaw—one of those brimmed hats with high straight sides and a flat top.

He was standing in the front hall holding it in his gloved hands when she emerged from the parlor. “Good afternoon, Mr. Satterthwaite.”

Formal names in front of the servants, and in a way, that pleased her. Calling him “Chris”—having him call her “Clem”—felt like a delicious secret that only the two of them shared.

He appeared to be amused by it, for his eyes danced as he said, “Good afternoon, Miss Wright.”

Mr. Bagshaw repeated the greeting when Chris escorted her outside. “Good afternoon, Miss Wright. I enjoyed our dance yesterday evening.”

“Good day, Mr. Bagshaw. I enjoyed it, too.” Even if she did wish that her partner had been Chris.

Chris was glowering at his friend. “You didn’t tell me that you danced with Miss Wright.”

Mr. Bagshaw grinned. “No need to be jealous, Satterthwaite. I was there. She was there. We danced.”

Was Chris jealous? Clem should not be so pleased about the possibility, but she could not deny the thrill it gave her to see him put out on this matter.

“If you attend a ball I am attending, I will dance with you, too,” she informed him.

“There you go, Satterthwaite,” Mr. Bagshaw said cheerfully. “What affairs do you attend tonight, Miss Wright? If I have an invitation to it, I’ll undertake to get Satterthwaite along.”

“I’ve nothing this evening, Mr. Bagshaw, but I shall be at the Hartford ball tomorrow evening.” She slid her eyes sideways to see how Chris was responding to Mr. Bagshaw’s machinations.

“I hardly think Lady Hartford would care for an uninvited guest,” Chris protested.

Mr. Bagshaw laughed. “Then you are wrong,” he said.

“The hostesses are always pleased to have extra men, particularly those willing to dance with the wallflowers. And it is not as if Mrs . Hartford can expect a crush. She is not one of the premier hostesses who only invite the cream of the cream. And from what you said about your tailors, you can be dressed to the part by tomorrow night.”

More evidence that Chris was right about Mrs. Bellowes, and her inability to procure the invitations that would put Clem in the same room as the kind of gentleman her father wanted her to meet.

Her grimace was misinterpreted. Mr. Bagshaw flushed and said, “I beg your pardon, Miss Wright. I’m sure it must be the thing if you have been invited. If you help Miss Wright up, Satterthwaite, you can take the driver’s seat, and I shall ride in escort.”

For the first time, Clem noticed the horse tied on behind the phaeton. Goodness. Chris was so distracting that she’d not noticed it.

Today, he drove them to Hyde Park, maneuvering the team through the traffic competently, if not expertly. Mr. Bagshaw rode alongside the phaeton, keeping his eye on the team, but nothing happened that required his intervention.

“It is too early for the fashionable hour,” he said, as they approached the gates to the park.

“Which is all to the good, because it will not be as crowded. Now easy through the gates, Satterthwaite, and then I shall leave you to it. Do the circuit, my friends, and I shall meet you back here in an hour.”

“New clothes?” Clem asked as Mr. Bagshaw rode away. “I thought the hat was new.”

“Everything,” Chris replied, somewhat mournfully. “From the skin out, if I can be so indelicate. Billy said I had to look the part. At least the tailor to whom he sent me hasn’t charged me more than I can afford. I do not want to be any more beholden to Billy than I already am.”

He shrugged. “I live simply and I don’t gamble. I have savings. Dressing to impress your father and the ton is not going to beggar me. The thing is—I told you I had a dream, Clem. May I tell you?”

“Of course.” Clem had been wondering what it could be since yesterday afternoon. Not a gambling den or anything on the wrong side of legal. He wanted to get away from Mr. O’Hara, but that didn’t mean it would be either wise or safe to set up in opposition to him.

“I want to open an orphan asylum,” Chris confessed.

“No, not that exactly. More of a school, but one at which boys like me—poor boys with no relatives—have a chance to be educated so they can make something of themselves. I teach a few classes for the errand boys who work for Billy, so I know I could do the teaching. But I have no idea about the rest of it. Which is why it is a dream, you know, and not a plan. For example, it would be very expensive. Most orphanages make the orphans work to raise funds, but I do not want them to be cheap labor. I want them learning things that are useful for a decent life once they are adults.”

Clem thought about that. She understood where his impulse had come from. Becoming an orphan had landed him in the streets, after all. “You could have a few rich orphans, and even rich, neglected children who are not orphans. People who could afford your fees.”

“That,” said Chris, “is a very good idea. Would you…” Chris’s forehead creased into a frown, and then he started again.

“Would you want to help with something like that? Would you mind some of your money being spent on something like that? Setting it up, I mean. I see your point about having some paying pupils.”

“You could also save on servants by having the boys do some of the housework,” Clem suggested.

“I spent a year at a school that was supposed to give me good contacts with the ton, though none of the girls there were actually from the ton. We had to do three hours of chores a week, which meant we learned to work together, to manage our time, to follow instructions—and how to boil a kettle and scrub a floor. I am not,” she pointed out, “suggesting you use them as ‘cheap labor’, but as a way to learn what it’s like to do domestic work.

It would be advantageous for some, as they’d learn the right way to do what they’ll need to do as adults, and for others—those who might never need to do domestic chores to making a living—it would create an understanding and an appreciation for those who do the hard work to make their living easier. In theory, at least.”

She chuckled. “Some of the girls at school had large allowances and paid others to do their chores, and that worked well for me, for Father never gave me an allowance. He won’t like your plan, Chris.”

“I am aware that I’ll have to change it a bit,” Chris acknowledged. He was silent for a moment. The carriage drive they were on intersected with another, and he gave all his concentration to the horses while he turned them to the left.

That accomplished without incident, he picked up the conversation.

“I can work for your father and manage the orphanage, or at least provide useful oversight. And perhaps teach for an hour or two several times a week. After all, your father currently manages his mines from here in London, where he is out every night and most afternoons.”

“Yes, and sleeping in during the mornings,” Clem agreed.

“But he still will not approve of you having an enterprise he has no hand in, and especially one with a charitable purpose. Father does not believe in charity. He says that he raised himself from the pits, and if others do not do likewise, it is their fault and none of his affair.”

Chris drew the horses to a halt and turned in his seat to regard her with a steady gaze from his blue-gray eyes. “I do not intend your father to rule our lives, Clem. I will give him his due, but I won’t give him my soul, or allow him to take more from us than you and I agree.”

“Do not underestimate my father, Chris. He did ‘raise himself from the pits’, as he puts it. He didn’t care then who he had to betray or step on to gain an advantage, and he cares even less now.”

“I know, my dear,” Chris said. “But I ask you not to underestimate us. You and I together, with your knowledge of your father and mine of villains in general, and with our courage, our intelligence, and—”

He paused and then finished the sentence.

“Our love, Clem. I believe in us. We will be fighting for our future, remember. He will only be fighting for spite and his need to bully and control.” He collected the reins into one hand and used the other to pick up hers and lift it to his lips for a kiss. “I believe in us.”

And in that minute, there in Hyde Park, with the sun shining on them and Chris turning his attention back to the horses and giving them the direction to continue, Clem believed, too.

Our love, he said. Does he love me, then?

That raised another question, one she had not thought to expect. Do I love him?