Page 7 of The Secret Word (Twist Upon a Regency Tale #10)

He expected her to demand that he finish his sentence, but instead she asked a question that got almost to the heart of his discomfort with her knowing his past. “Why do they call you Fingers? The people at Mr. O’Hara’s?”

They turned a corner and walked along the next side of the square. She didn’t press the question except by her silence.

Well, and why not? If she rejected him once she knew his story, so be it.

If they were to decide to marry, he wanted a relationship based on honesty and trust. “When I was nine, my mother died,” he said, eventually.

“My father had not been home for some time. I found out later that he was dead, too, which I suppose is why his debts were called in. The debt collectors took everything and left me homeless and alone.”

He was skipping the complication that was his grandfather, but the outcome was the same. He’d finished up out on the street. In more than his undershirt, but that didn’t last. A gang of boys beat him up for his clothes, which still had plenty of wear, though they were not new.

Fortunately, the boys were impressed at how well he’d fought and how many of them it had taken to subdue him, so they took him back to the den they’d made in the cellar of a burnt-out building.

“I was lucky. I found a place to live with some people who taught me a skill with which I could pay my share of food and board.” For nearly a year, he worked in a team, lifting purses and watches, swiftly graduating from decoy to pick pockets as his skill grew.

“They taught me to be a pickpocket, Clem.”

An indrawn gasp was her only comment. After a pause, he picked up the story.

“Until I was caught. Ramping Billy had me, and not only that, he recognized me, because he was one of the men who had collected money from my father in the past, though not one of those who stripped my mother’s rooms. He took me back to Fortune’s Fool—at that time, it was his only establishment.

He handed me over to the ladies who worked there. ”

Chris could remember exactly what Billy had said to them. “Wash him, delouse him, dress him in something that isn’t rags, and put him to work. We’re keeping him. ”

“He told them to watch me, because I was light-fingered. So, they called me ‘Fingers’, and they still do.”

He shuddered at the memory of that hungry, terrifying year between the time his grandfather had abandoned him and when Billy had found him. He’d been well aware of his fate if he were caught by constables, and he’d been scared every time he lifted something.

But from the moment he entered Fortune’s Fool, he never stole again.

Billy had made it clear that if he was caught stealing from Billy or any of his employees or customers, he’d be out on his ear again.

By that time, he’d been a street rat for long enough to know how lucky he had been the first time.

Being beaten and stripped was far from the worst fate to befall a handsome boy alone in the stews of London.

“So, that is why they call me Fingers, and that is why, between your father and Billy, I’ll take Billy every time. He is a villain, Clem, I’ll grant you that. But he’s an honest villain.”

“Whereas my father is a dishonest upright citizen. I accept your point, Chris.”

She was not yelling for her maid and stalking off in outraged disgust. That was a bonus. Instead, she seemed to have decided on an interrogation. “Do you gamble?”

“Only for pleasure and never more than I happen to have in my pockets. My father couldn’t leave the tables alone, and so my mother moved from rented room to rented room, outrunning the bailiff, never quite making ends meet.

I won’t ever do that to those who depend on me.

” He paused as a realization made him amend his statement.

“Not that I have anyone dependent on me yet.”

She nodded. “Do you drink alcohol?”

“I do, but I am not a drunkard. From what I understand, both my father and my grandfather spent their lives intoxicated to a lesser or greater extent, which is probably why they were such poor gamblers that my grandfather had to flee overseas when my father died. You might not think much of my position with Billy, but it is a responsible job overseeing his finances, and pays well. I won’t put that at risk just for the sake of a temporary escape into dreams. No opium for me, either, or ether parties, or the like. ”

Clem nodded, and he thought that turn-about was fair play, but before he could ask her the same question, she floored him with a question about the third vice of the disorderly—the one he had expected her maidenly sensibilities to ignore.

More the fool, him. Clementine Wright was made of sterner stuff than that.

“Do you disport with women?”

It silenced him for a moment, but he had been blunt and honest so far, and had no intention of stopping now. If she had the knowledge to ask the question, she should not be offended by the answer.

“I am not a virgin, Clem. I have not been a virgin since I was fourteen, when one of O’Hara’s women took me on as a charity case.

I have, in recent years, lost my taste for mindless coupling, but I have had temporary lovers—women who had an interest in my company and I in theirs.

Hearts were not involved, except that we were friends—and in most cases still are. I do not have a lover at the moment.”

Come to think of it, he had not had a lover for months. Perhaps that was the reason Clem had bowled him over. Perhaps he should find a willing woman with whom to exorcise her.

Except he didn’t want to, and in any case, he was reasonably sure it would not work.

“I see,” said Clem.

Chris decided to take over the conversation. “My turn. Same questions. Do you gamble?”

“I shall simplify matters by saying that I do not gamble. I do not drink alcohol. And I am a virgin. However, I reserve the right to change all three once my father no longer monitors how often I breathe.”

His smile was involuntary. What a delight she was.

Her smile was sour. “And I suppose that is the sort of comment you are expected to train me not to make.”

“The fact you already know that shows you don’t need any training,” Chris pointed out. “All you need is the motivation to monitor what you say if the situation calls for it.”

She set her jaw. “I do not see why I should.”

“Yes. Exactly. And frankly, neither do I! Unless you do it as part of a strategy to placate your father until you get what you want.”

Chris had taken another two steps before he realized that she had stopped. She was standing on the path, looking as stunned as if his comment had been a flour sack to the head.

And Martha was approaching. She ignored Chris and spoke to Clem. “Miss Wright, you are ‘at home’ this afternoon. We should get back.”

“Yes,” said Clem. “Yes, Martha, you are correct. I see we have completed a circuit of the square, Mr. Satterthwaite. Shall we retrace our steps to Father’s townhouse?”

“Indeed, Miss Wright. And might I be so fortunate as to take you driving with me tomorrow afternoon?” In a phaeton, if he could hire one, with no room for a maid.

“Thank you,” the lady replied. “I should like that.”

Today’s mission could be accounted a success, then. He had not scared her off, he had given her food for thought, and they had an engagement for the next day.

He had only one problem. He had never before driven a phaeton or, indeed, anything more than a donkey cart.

However, he had a plan.

Two years ago, Ramping Billy O’Hara had branched out from debt-collection, gambling dens, brothels, and residential property (which was a fancy expression for warrens of once fine buildings repurposed to accommodate dozens of families each).

More recently, he’d begun buying successful businesses around the fringes of the area he ruled, and even beyond the reach of the crime bosses who ruled the worst parts of London.

Since Chris kept Billy’s books, he was one of the few people aware that Billy now owned the King’s Arms, which was one of the terminal inns for the Great North Road, an important link in a chain of transport for people and mail that branched out across the breadth and length of the country.

So, it was to the King’s Arms Chris went, to ask if he could rent a phaeton and team for the following afternoon, and whether someone could teach him how to drive it. The groom laughed in his face and asked him to wait a minute.

Some fifteen minutes later, he was explaining his request to the stable master, and then to the innkeeper. Both were as amused as the groom.

“ Ee , lad. Driving a high-bred team is not learned in a minute,” the stable master said, when he’d stopped laughing.

“And even if it could be done, I’ve not the people to spare nor the horses,” the innkeeper said. “You might be Billy’s pet, but even he can’t expect miracles.”

Right. So much for plan “A”. All Chris had achieved was making an idiot of himself for the pleasure of the innkeeper and his stablemaster. He gave it up as a bad job—he was due back at work, in any case.

The problem was, he did not have a plan “B”.

He continued to worry at the problem for the rest of the afternoon.

He could hire a carriage and a driver, but that wouldn’t give him the privacy with Clem that he wanted.

Perhaps he could hire horses, for he could ride well enough.

He had no idea, however, whether Clem did or did not.

He was finishing up for the day when one of Billy’s boys came looking for him. “Mr. Satterthwaite, there’s someone for you in the stable-yard,” he said.

When Chris went to look, he found an elegant phaeton occupied by a smartly-dressed man he’d seen from time to time in Fortune’s Fool.

“Christopher Satterthwaite?” the man called out.

“I am, yes.”

“I’m John Bagshaw. O’Hara sent me to teach you how to drive a phaeton. If you learn to drive, he’ll write off my gambling debts.” He moved over on the seat. “Come on up.”

Another favor from Billy. When the bill came due to be paid it was going to be enormous, but turning Billy down was even more dangerous.

Chris mounted the steps and took the driver’s seat.

Laugh at him, did they? If he could master this skill—or at least make not too bad a fist of it—he’d have the last laugh.