Page 21 of My Fair Lord

“I’m sure you will work wonders on his manners, Florence dearest, though I’m not sure you will need to,” she said. “I could tell from your face that he’s perfectly captivating. Put him in company with Aunt Patricia and her clutch of hens and they’ll practically swoon when he turns those gorgeous eyes on them.”

“Honestly, wife of mine!” Twemlow coughed on a crumb of crumpet. “You two are like a pair of schoolgirls. It’s quite startling to see what effect a good-looking man can have on women, you silly things.”

“Our interest is purely sociological,” Cordelia said primly. She winked at Florence. “Of course I’m sure it will be perfectly advantageous when it comes to fooling anyone. They won’t be able to see past his looks, though I’m not sure if that holds true for Papa. You could tell Aunt Patricia he’s the King of Sweden and she wouldn’t doubt it.”

“Do you think so?” Florence asked eagerly.

Cordelia gave Florence an infuriating smile.

“I’m sure of it. Why, you were practically eating his words. The two of you were quite rapt in each other; leaning your heads close and giving him that coy little smile. Of course, I couldn’t see if he was smiling back from where I was sitting, but I expect he was. It looked quite flirtatious.”

“Well, it wasn’t!” Florence exclaimed in surprise. She would not call herself a practised flirt, though she’d had the occasional sweetheart and indulged in plenty of idle chat with her elder brother’s friends when she had been younger. She had enjoyed their conversation and the slightly teasing nature of it. Mr Blake was extremely charming in a rough and ready sort of way. There was something that drew her to him inexplicably.

“It’s the prospect of what I can do with him,” she said.

The triumphant gleam in both Twemlow and Cordelia’s eyes made her listen more carefully to the declaration she had just made.

“I mean, what I can do with him to sculpt him into the sort of man he needs to be in order to fool Daddy,” she said quickly.

“Of course,” Cordelia replied. “Have you considered where you’re going to carry out your lessons? You can hardly invite him back to the hotel to teach him. You’ll get a reputation for yourself.”

Florence wrinkled her nose. “I suppose that’s true. I’ll have to give it some thought. I haven’t really planned it all out yet. It’s very spur of the moment.”

“Why not bring him to Goreswarth Chase with you when you come back in a fortnight?” Twemlow suggested. “We can put him up in one of the guest suites and there are hundreds of pieces of silver for him to learn how to use.”

Florence brightened. “That sounds fine. He can hardly come to Leamington with Daddy and me. He can have two weeks—a fortnight, I do love that word—to get his affairs in order then we can send for him.”

Twemlow clapped his hands. “That’s perfect. You’ll have a week to begin his education, then we’ll see if he can pass as a gentleman at the county fair. Do that then I’ll set a date to introduce him to your father.”

“And you’re perfectly happy for us to use your house?” Florence asked.

“Yes, of course we are,” Cordelia said, taking her hand. “It will give us something to do while the men are off fishing. In fact, Twemlow, you can take him with you one afternoon. He needs to learn how to make tedious small talk after all.”

Florence smiled nervously. Suddenly everything was becoming more real. Her resolve wasn’t exactly breaking, but it was certainly stretching a little more than she was comfortable with. Mr Blake hadn’t even agreed to take part and Cordelia was already choosing a room for him.

Her misgivings might have seen her calling the whole thing off until she dined with her father, Cordelia, and Twemlow. Mr Wakechild had returned from an excursion in high spirits and commanded a table in the centre of the room beneath the brightest of the gasoliers that sparkled above.

“Florence, I’m delighted to tell you that despite your rather inappropriate habit of spending the evening talking with waiters, you did manage to catch some attention on the night of the ball.” Clayton Wakechild bestowed an approving smile on Florence. “One man in particular has expressed interest in meeting you again.”

“Oh, well, that’s very gratifying to know,” Florence said as she helped herself to another lamb chop and sprinkled it with mint sauce.

“Aren’t you going to ask who it is?” Cordelia prompted.

“Oh yes, I suppose I should. Who was it, Daddy? The brass engraver?” she asked, remembering his polite bow. “Not Sir St-John I hope.”

“Viscount Stretford.”

Florence wrinkled her brows. “I’m afraid I don’t remember him. Did I dance with him or just talk?”

“You danced.”

Her father described him, and slowly a portrait painted itself in Florence’s mind. She pursed her lips.

“Yes, I remember him now. He commented on my hair and said it reminded him of Queen Elizabeth.”

“There you go, what a lovely compliment,” Clayton said.

Florence picked up her fork. “I suppose so. He was very dull and quite stupid. He seemed to think that it was being a redhead that inspired the Virgin Queen to greatness, and he thought the Iceni lived in Chester.”