Page 67 of The Secret Word
Will, put to the ground by the nursemaid, put one hand behind his back, wrapped the other across his stomach, and bent in the middle. He then ran to his father, who had just lowered Christabel to the ground.
“Bel kiss Unca Will,” decided that dainty lady, stomping determinedly toward him.
Billy knelt to present his cheek for her peck. Although he was Will’s godfather, he did not play favorites, treating Will and Bel the same, but he could not deny that the sweet girl had him wrapped around her little finger.
She knew it, too, the little witch. She tipped her head on one side and smiled at him. “Unca Will present?”
“Are you here to join the conspiracy to spoil my daughter, Mr. Harrington?” said Clementine, appearing in the doorway. She came forward with a smile, her hand held out for him to shake, stopping when a child grabbed either leg, making it dangerous for her to move.
Billy, grinning openly now, strode closer so they could shake hands. “How are you, Mrs. Satterthwaite?”
“Keeping very well, thank you. Yes, Bel, I see that it is Uncle Will. No, Will, I shall not pick you up, but if you run and sit on the couch, I shall come and sit there too, and you and Bel may sit on either side of me for a cuddle.”
Will took off for the couch. Bel looked up at her Mama, and then at her father, and followed more slowly.
Once Clementine was ensconced on the couch, with a child tucked into each side, Billy and Christopher all sat down. Billywas feeling in his pocket for the packet of candied cherries he’d purchased for the children when the maids brought the tea tray in. Trays, rather, for there was one with tea makings, and one with cakes and sandwiches. A footman followed with a tea urn, which he placed on a sideboard.
Safely out of reach of the children, Billy noted.
“I’ll make the tea, shall I?” Christopher asked.
Will was already wriggling down to investigate the food.
“I have brought a little something that might keep them both amused for a short time,” Billy offered, showing Clementine the packet. He took one out so that Clementine could see. Bel reached out a hand, saying, “Pease, pease. For Bel.”
“Yes,” Clementine agreed. “Two each, Mr. Harrington, if you would. Bel, you and Will sit on the hearth rug. Uncle Will can then give you your treat.”
The waiting nursemaids—the children had one each, working under the supervision of the nanny—came forward to lead the children to the hearth rug, where they sat and politely held out both hands. Billy, as he put a cherry into each of the four small extended hands, could not help but compare these two treasured children of wealthy parents to the endless number of unloved mites he had known in his time on this earth.
He did not remember being eighteen months old. Someone must have looked after him then, at least enough to see he was fed occasionally and had a place to sleep away from the rats. It certainly wasn’t a team of clean and neatly dressed nursemaids. He didn’t think it was his mother—Billy must have had one, but he had no memory of her, and no one he did remember from his childhood knew who she was.
That a protégée of his—especially this one—could give his children such a life! It made him feel that his ruthless drive to the top of the dung heap had not been entirely without merit. Little Will and Bel had a beautiful home in the country, the bestof care, loving parents, adoring servants, a whole school full of older brothers, relatives, and godparents to pamper them and bring them treats—it warmed Billy’s cold heart.
They kept the conversation general while the children and their carers were in the room. How had the weather been in London? How were the boys at the school? How many words did Bel speak now? And Will? Physically, Will was the most able and daring, but Bel was far more sociable and did most of the talking for both of them.
Once the children were carried away for their naps, Christopher leaned forward to say, “I hear you have sold Fortune’s Fool, Billy. And others of your businesses.”
It was not quite a question, but Billy answered it anyway. “I’ve sold them all—mostly to the people who were managing them for me.” Given them away, in some cases. His main goal had been to release himself from his empire while still taking care of his people. He had more wealth than he could spend in a lifetime. He hadn’t needed to screw every pound, shilling, and penny out of the sale.
Clementine and Christopher exchanged their look. It was one he had become familiar with over the past couple of years, and he envied it greatly. First and foremost, it conveyed love and understanding. But on top of that, it communicated in a mysterious way that was visible but unintelligible to the onlooker.
In this case, it seemed they had made a mutual decision to remain silent. Billy had used the trick himself. People loved to fill silence. Ah well, he had come here to tell them. “I am going away for a while. I will be back, and I won’t be Billy O’Hara or William Harrington when I am next in England.” He needed to give his enemies time to stop looking for him, to change his appearance enough to go unnoticed, to build a credible identitydifferent enough from those he had used before so that he could remain undetected.
He didn’t bother saying that, but he did find himself explaining some of his deeper motives. “People don’t grow old doing what I do. I find that I would like to live long enough to see William and Christabel grow up. And I do not want my connection to you and to them to bring trouble to your door, so…” He shrugged. “I will send you a letter from time to time. I won’t use my name, but you will know it is me.” He took a card from his pocket and gave it to Christopher. “If you would care to write, to let me know how you and the children are, my solicitor Richard Anderson will always know how to reach me.”
Clementine regarded him gravely. “I hope you find what you are looking for, Mr. Harrington, or O’Hara, or whoever you become. You have been a great blessing to our family. We look forward to welcoming you back whenever that may be.”
She was too kind. But then, she had only seen the benevolent side of him. Christopher knew better. “What can we do for you, Billy? We owe you so much, as you yourself have pointed out on various occasions.”
In jest, and to maintain his reputation. In truth, he could never do enough to make up to Christopher for his failure to keep watch over the abysmal Reggie. Billy had loved Christabel Satterthwaite since the day he first met her and her little boy, when he’d turned up at the rooming house where they lived at the time to collect a gambling debt that Reggie owed.
Christabel had invited him in and given him tea. Him! Ramping Billy O’Hara! And so what if it was just a few tea leaves in hot water, all the poor lady could afford? Billy had managed to persuade his employer to give the useless Reggie an extra week to pay, and had personally pawned Reggie’s watch and marched Reggie to a job handling cargo on the wharves to make up the difference.
Of course, Reggie learned nothing. After several more incidents in which Christabel had lost her household furniture, and in one case all the china her friend Lady Fernvale had given her, Billy had offered to take Christabel and the boy and set them up in comfort somewhere. “Thank you, Billy,” she had said, tears in her eyes. “I know Reggie is a dreadful gambler, and will not stop. But he is my husband, and I love him. I cannot come with you.”
She was right, in a way. Reggie was a compulsive gambler, and that came first in his life. But he loved his wife and son in his own way, and he was a gentleman. Billy was a rogue and a villain, the sweepings of the gutter underneath it all, however he tried to improve himself. He’d never gambled away the money for the week’s groceries, but he’d done far worst things in service of keeping his body and soul together.
One of his worst crimes was focusing on Fortune’s Fool, the first gambling den he acquired, right at the time that Reggie got himself in too deep with the wrong people. Billy had heard that the idiot had been killed and slung into the Thames, and had intended to visit the widow, but it was opening week. He had thought it could wait. He hadn’t known that Christabel was sick.
