Page 2 of My Fair Lord

“My mother has been beyond the cares of this world for the past eighteen years,” Florence told him quietly.

The look of abject contrition that passed across his face was enough for her to forgive his blunder instantly.

“My apologies and condolences,” he murmured. He covered her hand briefly with his, then removed it hastily as the indiscretion presumably struck him.

“It’s been so long I barely remember her presence.”

“I lost mine when I was eight. The pain diminishes but never departs entirely.”

Touched at the sudden transformation from teasing to sincere, Florence acknowledged the apology with a tilt of the head. He had been mocking her in the first place, but there had been no malice in it even so. More irritatingly, he was partially correct.

“It was my aunt,” she admitted with a small smile. “She took it upon herself to bring my sister and I up as she thought my mother would have wanted.” She doubted Aunt Patricia would ever have anticipated a man such as this to be the recipient of Florence’s attention. Additionally, from what she knew of her late mother from the tales Cordelia and their father told, Lavinia would have seen Florence’s decision as a huge adventure.

She cast a surreptitious look at her companion. He was tall and slender; sharp-faced with good cheekbones and a straight nose that would have done a marble bust proud. His jaw was peppered with light stubble, suggesting he took little care over his appearance or hadn’t had the opportunity to shave that day. His startling blue eyes roved constantly from side to side, animating his face. He walked with long strides and Florence’s feet raced to keep up with him. She was glad of the sensible low-heeled shoes she was wearing and that summer in England was cool enough that she wasn’t likely to overheat.

“Can we slow down a little?” she begged. “If you are trying to appear unobtrusive, you’re going about it all in the wrong way. We hardly look like a pair of sweethearts out for a stroll.”

“Good point.” He slowed his pace. “I picked well.”

“Why did you pick me?” Florence asked shyly.

“You didn’t look busy, but you did look bored,” he said. He gave her a sidelong grin. “Am I right?”

“Yes on both counts,” Florence admitted.

Just beyond Central Station, her companion changed direction sharply and they crossed the road, dodging between the lanes of coaches and carriages. They turned into a street that was narrower and quieter than the main thoroughfare with its rows of storefronts. Now they were in the territory of warehouses and factories. The men and women they passed were working, or if they were shopping, they were buying food not fripperies.

Florence glanced back over her shoulder. Leaving behind the bustle of Ranelagh Street meant that if anything were to happen to her, there would be fewer people to come to her aid. No one knew where she was and she realised now how stupid she was being. She could be helping a criminal evade police capture.

“Where are we going?” She should have asked before, really. Acting impulsively was a dreadful habit that she did try to be aware of, but somehow it was hard.

“To the waterfront. I need to deliver something to an office at the docks before three. Hold this please.”

The man removed his coat and held it out to Florence. Taken aback, she took it without even questioning what he was doing. He removed his waistcoat and turned it inside out so that the hideous tartan disappeared and was replaced with a plain, dark grey cloth of much more respectable appearance. He took the coat back from Florence, took the tweed cap off his head, revealing light brown waves cut short on the side and long on top, and produced a slightly battered derby from inside his coat. His outfit now marked him out as a man of the working class, but probably a clerk or a secretary rather than a factory labourer.

“Are you a spy?” Florence asked, astonished at the change in his appearance.

“Of course I’m not a spy,” he exclaimed.

He sounded incredulous and his face became a picture of innocence, leading her to immediately suspect there was more to him than he was revealing.

She narrowed her eyes. “That sounds exactly like the sort of thing a spy would say.”

“It’s also the exact thing someone who isn’t a spy would say,” he pointed out.

“I suppose so,” she said.

“It’s a very odd conclusion to jump to. What made you think it?”

Florence floundered. “Well … you say your life is in danger and you’ve coerced a perfect stranger to take part in a deception. It seems the sort of thing a spy might do.”

The man looked amused. “Do you know a lot about spies?”

“Not really,” Florence admitted, her cheeks starting to burn.

“If I was, I would hardly admit the fact to a complete stranger, Miss…” He tilted his head to one side and gave her an easy smile. “I don’t actually know your name, do I.”

Florence hesitated. He did not need to know it as they would be parting before long. Which meant there was no reason he should not know.