Page 12 of The Secret Word (Twist Upon a Regency Tale #10)

M rs. Bellowes was not impressed by the alterations Martha had made to Clem’s gowns.

She normally met Clem at the evening’s ball or musicale or whatever else was on, but on the evening of the Hartford Ball, she turned up at the Wright townhouse, inspected Clem’s gown and hairstyle, and demanded that Clem change immediately.

“Thank you for your advice,” said Clem. “I shall continue as I am, however. I believe fewer flounces and a looser hair style are more flattering to my person.”

The snort from Mrs. Bellowes spoke volumes. “That is a lost cause, girl, given how plump you are, and how plain.”

Clem stood firm, and Mrs. Bellowes demanded to speak with Father, who was, for once, at home.

“You hired me to puff your daughter off, Mr. Wright,” the harridan scolded. “How am I to do it when she defies me like this? Just look at her!”

Clem faced her father’s glower with a firm exterior, doing her best to follow Chris’s example.

Firm but polite, and ruthlessly honest .

That was the ticket. “The flounces and frills do not suit me, Father. I look like a cream puff. Furthermore, the over-fussy decoration Mrs. Bellowes ordered for me is not in fashion, so next to the other ladies, I look ridiculous in those gowns.”

Martha had also performed other miracles.

For example, she had removed some of the width from this gown, as well as adding a matching ribbon that had the effect of lowering the high waist. Clem continued, “The changes Martha has made on my gowns are an improvement, though I have been unable to do anything about the insipid colors.”

Father was examining her, his face impassive.

When Mrs. Bellowes started to speak, he held up a hand to silence her.

After a long minute, he said, “Ye don’t look so plump in that.

Shapely, but that’s to the good. Men like shapely, whatever the fashion.

As for the hair—it stays. You’ll do, Clementine. ”

As near a compliment as she’d ever had from her father. “Thank you, sir.” She curtseyed.

“That is not acceptable, Mr. Wright,” Mrs. Bellowes snapped. “You pay me to teach Miss Wright how to compete with her betters, and—”

Clem interrupted. “I am Clementine Wright, daughter of Bertram Wright, who pulled himself up by his bootstraps from pit boy to one of the richest men in England. He need acknowledge no man as his better just because they can trace their ancestors back to some thug who bullied the poor and pandered to the king. I am grateful, Mrs. Bellowes, for your sponsorship. But I draw the line at any insult to my father.”

It was a master stroke. Father puffed out his chest and Mrs. Bellowes deflated. How Chris would smile when she told him.

“Your transport is ready, Miss Wright.” Charles the footman entered the room.

Clem swept her father another curtsey, and led the way out to the carriage. Perhaps, at that, she could talk Father into paying for a few more gowns.

It wasn’t over, of course. Mrs. Bellowes grumbled for the fifteen minutes it took to reach the Hartfords’ townhouse. True to Mr. Bagshaw’s prediction, it was on the extreme edge of the fashionable area, which gave Clem the confidence to put an end to Mrs. Bellowes’ scolding and complaints.

“If you are unhappy as my chaperone and sponsor, Mrs. Bellowes, we can put an end to the arrangement. I can tell my father that you are neither as knowledgeable nor as well connected as you claimed, and we shall part ways.” She smiled.

She had noted that Chris used his smile like a lethal weapon, charming people into going along with him before they noticed they had been cozened. “Thank you for your efforts on my behalf,” she added.

Chris had also demonstrated that politeness disarmed, and it worked on this occasion, for Mrs. Bellowes subsided with a muttered, “There’ll be no need for that,” and was silent for the rest of the journey.

Chris was already at the Hartfords’, waiting by the ballroom door so she could see him over other guests as the receiving line made its way to the waiting host and hostess.

Just the sight of him made Clem happier and more confident, and his smile drew forth an answering one from her just as she and Mrs. Bellowes were greeted by Mrs. Hartford, who took the smile as being for her, and smiled back.

“Miss Wright, is it not? How lovely of you to join us, Miss Wright. Girls, this is Miss Wright. Miss Wright, my daughters, Prudence and Charity. Mr. Hartford, Miss Wright.”

The gentleman of the house peered at her over the top of his glasses. “Nice to see you, Miss Er …”

“Good evening, Mr. Hartford,” said Clem, with a curtsey.

His eyes were distant, but his smile was kind. “I hope you have a lovely evening, my dear. Mrs. Hartford, we shall have to make certain that Miss… Er … has plenty of partners.”

“Thank you, sir,” Clem said, before she and Mrs. Bellowes had to move on to make way for the next guests to take their place with the Hartfords.

“You look lovely this evening, Miss Wright,” said Mr. Bagshaw, who was with Chris.

Which was as may be, but Clem did not have the breath to answer him.

A nod and a smile was all she could manage now she had an uninterrupted view of Chris Satterthwaite in all his new evening splendor.

He was breathtaking. It was the only word.

From his dancing pumps to the top of his head, there wasn’t a detail that didn’t shout ‘quality’.

And fit, lean, handsome, gorgeous quality at that.

“Which of these is your young man?” Mrs. Bellowes demanded.

Clem ignored the rude question, but realized she had been remiss. “Mrs. Bellowes, may I make known to you Mr. Satterthwaite and Mr. Bagshaw.” She indicated each gentleman in turn. “Gentlemen, Mrs. Bellowes has been kind enough to sponsor me this season.”

Father had clearly given Mrs. Bellowes Chris’s name, for she examined him closely. “You look like a gentleman,” she commented, “but it is not only fine feathers that make fine birds.”

“How kind you are,” said Chris, as if she had paid him an extravagant compliment.

Mrs. Bellowes was not armored against Chris’s brand of ruthless courtesy, so she huffed out a breath and then spoke to Clem. “You shall be fine with your friends, Miss Wright. I see someone I wish to speak with. I shall find you later.” She marched away.

Chris and Mr. Bagshaw watched her go. “Not the thing, to go off like that,” Mr. Bagshaw announced. “She has only just met us.”

“Does she usually abandon you like this?” Chris asked.

“Usually not this early, but she seldom stays near me for more than half an hour. She doesn’t have a friend, by the way. Or, at least, she doesn’t usually. Unless the bottle of gin in her reticule counts as a friend. By the time I am ready to leave, she is usually very much on the go.”

Chris and Mr. Bagshaw exchanged glances.

“We’ll not desert you,” Chris said.

“I should think not,” agreed Mr. Bagshaw.

“Thank you,” Clem said, “but I do not mind. She only complains and criticizes. This way, I can watch the dancing and imagine what it must be like.”

“Yes, but you should not be left on your own,” Mr. Bagshaw insisted. “Especially not looking like that.”

So much for their flattery! “It has been the same all Season,” she protested. “Nothing has happened to me.”

“It will now,” said Mr. Bagshaw, casting a dark look around the ball room.

Chris bent forward to bring his face closer, so she could hear his quiet voice over the buzz of conversation.

“What Bagshaw is carefully not saying, Clem, is that you were safe as long as you looked like a plump, frilly frump. But now that your clothing fits you and suits you better, things will change.”

He smiled then, a genuine smile. “You always look lovely to me, Clem. But the gown is charming, and I really like what Martha has done with your hair. Bagshaw says I may have no more than two dances unless we are betrothed. Shall I propose right now and ask for three?”

Clem shook her head. “You may have two, Chris, the first dance and the supper dance.” She was very tempted to simply say ‘yes’, though.

She was beginning to believe that marriage to Chris was a very good idea.

She was stopped only by the thought of her father’s probable reaction if they made such a public display before he had given his formal approval to the marriage.

“I should also like to request two dances,” said Mr. Bagshaw.

In the end, Clem danced eleven dances—two each with Chris and Bagshaw, three with men introduced to her by Mrs. Hartford, and four with men who asked for an introduction from one of the other men.

Perhaps her friends were correct and she looked almost pretty, or perhaps all it took to attract partners was for her to dance with other nice-looking and perfectly presentable men. Either way, it was astounding.

Mrs. Bellowes returned not long before the final set. “We can go now,” she said, without preamble. “The ball is nearly over. If someone was going to ask you to dance, they would have done so by now.”

“I have a partner for the last set,” Clem told her. “In fact, Mrs. Bellowes, I have had nine partners this evening.”

The look on her sponsor’s face could only be described as flabbergasted.

She turned away from the pleasing sight to address Chris. “I suppose, Mr. Satterthwaite, that Mrs. Bellowes and I will need to be ‘at home’ tomorrow afternoon. Could our drive be a little earlier or a little later?”

“Later,” Chris proposed. “If you are willing, we can do the fashionable hour at Hyde Park.”

Clem felt a delicious shudder—not of fear or excitement at the idea of Chris’s driving, but entirely because she was thrilled by his constant and public attention.

She was grateful now that none of her previous suitors had pleased Father, for she would not have missed getting to know this man for the world.

*

On the following day, Mr. Wright emerged from his study when Chris arrived to take Clem driving.

“Ye’ve done it, young Satterthwaite,” he crowed. “Six men—six lords’ sons, or close. And all in my drawing room, flattering my Clementine. The house looks like a flower shop, too. Demmit if it don’t.”

“I’m glad you are pleased, sir,” Chris said.

He wasn’t. Well, he was for Clem’s sake, because she deserved to know what she was worth.

But he had sat for the requisite thirty minutes in her drawing room earlier in the day with the group of men, and had determined that at least three of the six were looking for a rich wife.

And they were, as Wright said, lords’ sons, or close.

One of them might suit the selfish old man better than a lord’s estranged great grandchild, like Chris.

Wright echoed his thoughts, saying, “Maybe I could do better than you, Satterthwaite. I reckon I could, now my Clementine has come into her own.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Chris admitted. “She charmed them, Wright, the way she has charmed me.”

Wright grinned. “You’ve put in some effort to charm her, too, haven’t you, lad? Not just lessons, was it? Dancing with her and the like?”

“It was what you asked of me, sir,” Chris replied. He wasn’t about to confess to Wright that he was head over heels in love with the man’s daughter. He didn’t know what Wright would do with such leverage, but it would be something.

“It was. It was. And you’ve succeeded, lad. I’ll keep my word, don’t you worry. It’s good business. Besides, they all have nosy, pushy families.”

Whereas Chris had Billy. Loath though he was to become further indebted to Ramping Billy O’Hara, Chris would call on him if he had to, and he’d back Billy over Wright on any day.

“Next, I need to see what you know about the coal mining business,” Wright said. “Not tomorrow, but the next day, present yourself at my office at nine in the morning. Here. Follow me and I’ll give you my address.”

He ducked back into his study, and bent over his desk for a minute, scribbling on a square of paper, which he blotted and handed to Chris. “Now run along, Satterthwaite. Take my daughter to be seen by the smart folks in Hyde Park. I’ll see you at nine the morning after tomorrow.”

Chris left him in his study, rubbing his hands and muttering, “My Clementine with six lords’ sons!”