Page 12 of The Secret Word
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.
Chapter Five
“Icould trya new style, Miss,” said Martha.
Clem realized that she had been frowning at the mirror, but her appearance had not been what made her frown. She had given up hoping she would grow taller and more slender, that her face would become less blocky and her bosom less robust. She had long since accepted that her fair hair would not suddenly change color to the more fashionable brunette and develop more of a curl, and that her eyes would always remain irretrievably and blandly blue.
