Page 3 of The Secret Word (Twist Upon a Regency Tale #10)

“Goodness, no,” said Clem, fervently. She didn’t know which would be worse—being recognized by someone who told Father she had been here, or by someone who gossiped about her presence in Society.

She might not much enjoy the Society events to which Father had managed to get her invited, but they at least offered her an opportunity to meet gentlemen.

If she did not choose a husband for herself—one of whom Father approved, then he had vowed to choose one for her. And Father’s criteria would be all about rank, influence, and his own advantage, with no consideration at all given to whether the man would make her a good husband.

The passage led to a door outside, into a street where a carriage was waiting for them. “You do not have to come, Mr. Satterthwaite,” Clem said as he handed her up into the carriage. “I can deliver Mr. O’Hara’s letter to Father.”

“I do not dare disobey Ramping Billy O’Hara,” Mr. Satterthwaite said. He followed her into the carriage and took the other seat, facing her with his back to the horses. “He’ll want a report.”

A girl climbed into the carriage and sat next to Mr. Satterthwaite. She was modestly and neatly dressed. “Hello, Becky,” Mr. Satterthwaite said. “Is Billy sending you somewhere, too?”

“I’m to be Miss Wright’s chaperone,” the girl explained.

She grinned at Clem. “Hello, Miss Wright. Apparently, you need some female along or everyone will think Chris here has molested you in the carriage. Not to worry, love. Chris hasn’t molested anyone in his life.

” She batted her eyes at Mr. Satterthwaite. “Not without an invitation.”

“Give over, Becks,” Mr. Satterthwaite ordered. “Becky and I have known each other since we were little kids, Miss Wright.”

The groom had closed the door and the carriage was on its way. Clem managed a smile for Becky, but her thoughts returned to the letter. “I wonder what Mr. O’Hara had to say to my father.”

“Shall I take a look?” Mr. Satterthwaite asked. Without waiting for an answer, he produced a long thin knife from his boot. “Becky will keep our secret. We’re only going to read it, Becks. I shall deliver it to Mr. Wright no matter what it says, so Billy doesn’t need to know.”

Becky inclined her head. “If you say so, Chris.”

“Shall I?” Mr. Satterthwaite asked, his knife at the ready.

Clem nodded eagerly. Perhaps she should be ashamed to be reading someone else’s mail, but it was self-defense, really.

She couldn’t place the man. He was dressed like a gentleman rather than a laborer.

His clothing appeared to be made from good quality fabric, but both coat and pantaloons were loose for easy movement, rather than the closely-fitted garments warn by the fashionable gentlemen she knew.

He wore a dark-colored cravat with the simplest of knots, and no jewelry—not even a watch fob, ring, or cravat pin.

Perhaps he was a solicitor or a clerk, though she had seldom seen one so handsome and well-formed, nor with such apparent self-confidence.

While she was examining him, Mr. Satterthwaite slid his knife under the seal, working it loose until it popped free. He handed it to Becky. “Hold onto that, so we can put it back and no harm done.” She looked amused but made no comment.

Then Mr. Satterthwaite gave Miss Wright the letter. “Read it. At least you will be prepared for your father’s reaction.”

Clem took a deep breath and unfolded the paper.

To Mr. Bertram Wright.

Dear Sir,

I had the honor this afternoon to be of some small assistance to your daughter, Miss Clementine Wright.

I understand from her that she was using the facilities at Miss Clemens’ Circulating Library this afternoon.

She was chased by villains who intended kidnap.

Mr. Satterthwaite, the gentleman who gives you this letter, saw what was happening and brought her to me at Fortune’s Fool.

I was pleased to be able to give her refuge, and can assure you that no one saw her beyond those immediately concerned, myself and a few trusted servants.

Since arriving, she has had a maid with her for her reputation. The lady is in every respect unharmed.

I remain your humble servant.

William O’Hara.

Better than she expected. Without a single lie, he had implied that she had visited Miss Clemens’ ladies’ outhouse, and had been accosted there.

Clem preferred not to lie outright, but she would not have the tiny amount of freedom she had managed to carve out for herself if she wasn’t willing to shade the truth when necessary.

“Here,” she said to Mr. Satterthwaite. “You read it. He mentions that you rescued me. He does not say that I was in Bleak Street, nor why.”

“Bleak Street!” Becky exclaimed. “Not a nice place, that. It’s on the boundary, you see. Not quite Billy’s territory, and not quite the Browns brothers’. Boundary lands are always trouble.” She shrugged. “ I wouldn’t walk down there. Not alone.”

“So I discovered.” Clem did not bother to keep the sarcasm out of her voice. She may have been naive, but she was not a complete idiot.

Becky grinned, not in the least offended. “Cor, Chris, look at them ’ouses. Those ’ouses, I mean.”

The carriage had turned into the street where Clem lived with her father. It was the largest house on the street, a story higher than the others and twice as wide. The carriage pulled up outside. Mr. O’Hara must have told the carriage driver where to go, for Clem had not.

While she and Becky had been talking, Mr. Satterthwaite had taken a box of lucifer matches from his pocket, lit one by scraping it on the phosphorus inside a glass tube, and melted the bottom of the seal, which was now firmly affixed to the letter again.

Clem wrinkled her nose against the smell.

Mr. Satterthwaite put the letter in his inner pocket, with a smile at Clem, and was ready to leap to the ground as soon as the groom opened the door.

He turned to help first Clem, and then Becky down, even as the front door opened and the butler and Clem’s maid both hurried down the steps, scolding and complaining.

“Miss, where have you been? Your father is beside himself with anger.” That was the butler.

“Miss, you should be ashamed of yourself, leaving the library without me, and getting me into such trouble with the master. How could you?”

There was more, of course, but Mr. Satterthwaite cut them both off.

“Silence,” he demanded. “You.” He glared at the butler.

“Announce to Mr. Wright that Mr. Christopher Satterthwaite has escorted Miss Wright home, and requests a moment of his time.” He turned his attention to the maid.

“Your presence is not required. You may be about your duties.”

His assumption of authority and his lordly air had the desired effect. The pair of them scurried back into the house, and Mr. Satterthwaite offered Clem his arm. “Shall we go and beard the lion, Miss Wright?”

Becky followed them into the house and quietly took a seat in the hall as the butler returned from Father’s study to say, “Mr. Wright will see you, sir.”

Though Father’s bellow made his true message clear. “I’ll see the scoundrel, but he’ll not get a penny from me.”

Nothing in Mr. Satterthwaite’s demeanor indicated he had heard Father’s insulting words.

He accompanied Clem into Father’s study and bowed.

“Sir, I bring you a letter from Mr. O’Hara, who explains the near disaster that befell Miss Wright.

” He handed the letter to Father, who snatched it with a scowl for the bearer.

“And what is your part in this, young man?” he demanded. Evidence that Mr. Satterthwaite’s masquerade—if it was a masquerade—of aristocratic hauteur had worked. Had Father considered him to be of his own class or lower, he’d have addressed her rescuer as “boy.”

Showing no sign of discomfort or irritation, Mr. Satterthwaite merely replied, “I was fortunate to be in the right place to be of some small service to your daughter, Mr. Wright.”

Father broke the seal and read the letter, then turned on Clem. “You should have taken your maid with you to the outhouse, girl.”

“I daresay they would have taken the maid, too,” Mr. Satterthwaite told him. “They were very definitely after your daughter, and I saw at least eight of them in pursuit of Miss Wright. I doubt the maid plus the footman would have given them the least pause.”

Father grunted, nonplused by the intervention and unwilling to either acknowledge Mr. Satterthwaite’s point or disagree openly.

“That bookseller should have guards on her back yard,” he said next.

“You shall not shop there again unless you have just relieved yourself, Clementine. You will excuse my mentioning it, Satterthwaite. I’m a plain man, and I call a pot I piss in a piss pot. ”

“As is your right, Mr. Wright,” Mr. Satterthwaite said, smoothly. “But not normally, I imagine, in front of a lady such as your daughter. It is your current emotional distress over her near escape from kidnapping or worse, I make no doubt.”

Another grunt from Father, and then the surprising words, “Sorry, Missie.” But it was all for Mr. Satterthwaite, not Clem, for he added, “My Clementine is a lady, Satterthwaite, and make no mistake. Thousands I’ve spent on governesses and tutors and dresses, and all for one purpose. And do you know what that purpose is?”

“Your daughter’s happiness in a marriage suited to her grace, her beauty, and her excellent character?” Mr. Satterthwaite asked.

The question being rhetorical, Father was taken aback to have it answered, but he rallied. “Find her attractive, do you? A Satterthwaite, you say. I used to know a Reginald Satterthwaite. Something of a ne’er-do-well. But out of the top drawer, there was no doubt of that.”

“I have the honor to tell you the gentleman was my papa, sir,” said Mr. Satterthwaite. Father missed the heavy ironic overtones in Mr. Satterthwaite’s voice. Clem doubted he saw any honor in his statement, and also sensed he would have preferred a less dignified term than “gentleman.”

“Old Reggie’s son? Is that right?” The gleam in Father’s eye was familiar to Clem, and her heart sank.

He had a scheme, and given his plans for Clem, she could guess what it was.

She would have to warn Mr. Satterthwaite to run.

Not that he was objectionable to her from what she knew of him so far, but Clem would come into marriage with lead strings, every one of which would be designed to bind both her and her aristocratic husband to her father.

“Clementine,” said Father, “run along. Go wash and change. Rest, even. You have a ball this evening. Satterthwaite, can I offer you a brandy? Run along, Clementine, or do I have to take a switch to you?”