Page 16 of My Fair Lord

“The waiter with the champagne from last night. He was charming and he referencedThe Merchant of Venice, so he obviously has a little education.”

The quote had been from their previous encounter, but she didn’t consider it wise to admit to that.

“Well, he sounds ideal,” Cordelia said. She stopped talking and peered closely at Florence. “My goodness, Florence, your cheeks are perfect roses. Are you sure you aren’t ill?”

Florence touched a fingertip to her cheek. Sure enough, they were warm. “I couldn’t tell you why,” she said.

“No, I am sure you couldn’t think of a single reason why talking of a good-looking, partially educated working man who quotes Shakespeare would make you get overheated,” Cordelia said wickedly.

“I didn’t say he was good-looking,” Florence said.

“I saw him, remember?” Cordelia sniggered.

Florence smiled. “There was certainly something striking about him. I just need to find him and ask him if he will partake.”

“Well, he sounds perfect,” Twemlow said. “To our wager.”

Florence walked back to the table and poured three fresh cups of tea. She handed them round and raised hers. Excitement made her stomach bubble as if she were drinking more champagne.

“To our wager.”

* * *

Three days after the ball, Ned paid a visit to The Admiral Nelson pub and discovered there was an envelope waiting for him. He opened it with some trepidation to discover it contained a calling card informing him that Miss Wakechild was available to greet callers every afternoon between two and four in the Rose Salon at the Midland Adelphi Hotel. It was dated two days previously in pencil on the back, but there was no other message.

Alfie was sitting in his corner and a quick chat confirmed that the note had been delivered by hand by a member of the Postal Service, pre-paid. The hotel was no more than a twenty-minute walk and Miss Wakechild could have probably found the pub again, but delivering it herself was completely out of the question for a woman in her position and sending a runner from the hotel would have opened her up to more possible scandal. Ned was impressed that she was being cautious.

He noticed with some concern that Alfie had a swollen lip and was sitting gingerly. Remembering the sting of the cane or strap on his own tender backside, he felt a rush of anger. After intervening to stop the boy’s father from delivering a kicking, Ned had developed a disconcerting feeling of responsibility for Alfie in the month that he had been in Liverpool. Before leaving Liverpool, which he planned to do in the next fortnight, he would seek out the boy’s father and have some strong words. A clip around the ear for disobedience or cheek was one thing, but this was brutality.

The time was a quarter to three. Ned had no other plans for the afternoon beyond checking on Alfie. He returned to his lodgings and washed and changed into his best suit of clothing; the one he wore when trying to impress potential clients. It would never buy him entry to the fashionable salon ordinarily, but armed with the calling card, he would be granted permission to enter the hotel and move among the cream of society. He arrived with half an hour to spare before the time for paying calls in the afternoon ended.

He stood in the doorway, hesitating before making his way inside. A memory stirred of a visit to Harrogate with his mother and siblings many years ago. The hotel had been nowhere near as imposing as this one, but for a brief moment, he was transported back to a childhood of luxury and excitement with a family that loved him. He’d spent so long living outside that sort of life that entering it again felt unnerving.

He straightened his shoulders and lifted his head. Ned Blake was a man who walked into gambling dens and brothels without a second thought. He’d be damned if he was going to let a tea room full of women daunt him.

The Rose Salon was a public room on the first floor used by guests to receive visitors. As its name suggested, the walls were painted with shades of pink and red, with heavy pink drapes at the windows. The gas lampshades were shaped like rosebuds and each table bore a vase with the flowers. It was oppressively feminine and made Ned itch to leave.

Having said that, there was a pleasant hum of different conversations, with all the small tables occupied by a mixture of old and young women and their guests. Some were mothers with children, others stately matrons supervising daughters. There were one or two couples discreetly courting so Ned’s presence wouldn’t be too out of the ordinary. He saw that Miss Wakechild was sitting alone at the far end of the room in the corner where the two windows granted the best of the afternoon sunlight. She was sitting at a table for two with a pot of coffee and a plate of biscuits in front of her and was reading a book. Most charmingly, in Ned’s view, she had a pair of spectacles balanced on her neat nose. He wondered if she had sat there every day since leaving the message and how many more she would have been prepared to wait for him. His nerve endings twanged with excitement as he speculated what she might have to tell him.

The salon was attended by a steward whose immaculate appearance made Ned feel positively scruffy. He asked Ned to wait at the entrance while he took the card to Miss Wakechild. Ned took a moment to admire her from a distance. Her hair was topped with a small green hat with a veil and she wore a cream blouse with leg of mutton sleeves and a large bow at the front. Her skirt was olive green with a waterfall of burgundy ruffles at the front. In comparison to many of the other women, she was simply dressed considering she was probably one of the richest there. It was a striking contrast to what she wore to the ball and Ned felt as if he’d been given an insight into the public and private woman.

As the steward spoke to her, she cast her eyes to the door and spotted Ned. She gave him a cautious smile and spoke to the steward, who returned and led Ned towards her table. Miss Wakechild ordered a fresh pot of coffee, put her bookmark in place, and closed the book. Ned couldn’t resist glancing at the title, but she turned it over, giving him a measured look. It would be nothing frivolous or amusing, Ned suspected. She seemed the sort of woman who would read improving materials.

She removed her spectacles and put them into the case, then put both case and book in a bag at her feet and asked Ned to sit down. They made inconsequential chitchat about the weather until the coffee was delivered and poured by a pretty young waitress. Ned gave her a wink, then regretted it when Miss Wakechild caught his eye. Finally guaranteed some privacy, they smiled at each other, she nervously, he trying to appear trustworthy and respectable.

“I wasn’t sure if you were going to come,” she said.

“My apologies. I only received your card today. I’m afraid I don’t frequent that pub every day.”

“Don’t apologise. A man who doesn’t spend his days in public houses is better than one who does. Although if I hadn’t been able to leave a message for you there, it would have been a great deal more trouble, I suppose, so I shouldn’t really mind.”

Ned decided not to point out the obvious answer that just because he didn’t spend his days in that particular establishment didn’t mean he wasn’t in another.

“Yes, what would you have done?” he asked.

Miss Wakechild tilted her head slightly to one side. “I suppose I would’ve tried to contact Mr Halliwell and ask him how he contacted you.”

“Very resourceful.” He hid his shock that she might be so bold and leaned slightly forward. “I assume it is to do with Miss Halliwell you wish to speak with me as we did not manage to confer at the ball?”