Page 24 of My Fair Lord

“I don’t have any intentions that should concern anyone,” Ned said, flashing him a hostile look.

“A certain lady is nearing the end of her period of confinement,” Van Hoon said.

Ned’s guts clenched. He smiled, though it was more baring his teeth in what he hoped Van Hoon would realise was a warning.

“Well, how wonderful for her. However, I said that is nothing of interest to me.”

“The child will be born in a matter of weeks,” Willem added. “Aren’t you eager to find out if it lives?”

Ned sat down on the Chesterfield sofa and gave a heavy sigh.

“As eager as any disinterested party who hopes for a safe arrival for the child and health for the mother.”

Of course he did. Only a monster wouldn’t. He ran his hands through his hair and across his face.

“Willem, I’m ruing the day when I offered you my assistance. I should have stuck to people who don’t know my past. I want nothing to do with events up in Yorkshire and if you’re a friend to me at all, you will deny having spoken to me.”

He watched the expression of disapproval form on the face of the elder Van Hoon. He didn’t care. The Van Hoons had enough potential scandals in their own lives that Ned could make known if he chose to, though he hoped he wouldn’t have to resort to blackmail. It was so demeaning.

He didn’t have many qualms about masquerading as a viscount, he mused as he left the office. In fact, the thought of playing the role made him want to laugh. He’d spent years becoming whatever he needed to be, but that was a role he’d never played.

It occurred to him that he was wearing the suit that he had worn to meet Miss Wakechild, which might be ideal for visiting the Van Hoons, but not for his next meeting. He returned to the Admiral Nelson, removed his tie, starched collar and waistcoat, and left them with Meggie, along with a shilling and the warning not to sell them before he came back. Having done so, he made his way along the river front in the opposite direction of the Van Hoon’s office, almost three miles down to the much less salubrious docks where Alfie’s drunken wastrel of a father scraped a living cheating working men at cards.

He spotted Carver Clarke sitting on a stack of crates, winding a length of rope, and laughing with two other men. Carver was wearing a battered top hat jammed onto his straw-blond hair and a garish waistcoat of green and yellow stripes that looked almost new. It wasn’t hard to imagine where Alfie’s money had gone. The men looked over at Ned as he approached, eyes flicking up and down him. Ned flexed his hands and squared his shoulders then tilted his hat back. He took a deep breath.

“Carver Clarke?”

He stalked over to the group, rolling up his sleeves, the anticipation building inside him until the muscles in his arms began to sing.

Very soon he would have another compelling reason to disappear without a trace.

* * *

Ned returned to the Admiral Nelson later that afternoon to collect his clothing and check on Alfie. He walked gingerly into the pub and took a seat in the corner, waving to Meggie’s father, Eoghan, who had returned from the bookmaker’s. He signalled to the bitter pump and eased himself onto the wooden bench while he waited for his pint to be pulled. His ribs ached and he knew without seeing his reflection in a looking glass that there would soon be a bruise spreading over the left side of his jaw. He’d got a cut beneath his left eye along the cheekbone that he hoped wouldn’t scar. Damn Carver Clarke and his bloody rings. He needed a cold cloth or a steak to take the swelling down if he had any hope of the injuries subsiding before he saw Miss Wakechild two days hence.

Eoghan brought a pint mug over and put it on the table before Ned.

“What have you been getting yourself into?” he asked.

“I’ve had a talk with Alfie Clarke’s father,” Ned mumbled, discovering that talking was quite painful through a split lip.

“I don’t mean that,” Eoghan said. “That lady has been waiting for you. Looks important.”

He indicated with a thumb to the table beside the door where a woman sat, her face obscured by the heavy veil that fell from her hat, in the company of a young black, maid. Neither had drinks. As Ned and Eoghan looked over at their table, the veiled woman stood and walked over. A sinking feeling filled Ned as he recognised the determined walk. He could already picture the expression he would encounter before Miss Wakechild even lifted her veil. In an ironic recreation of Ned’s reaction to seeing Alfie, she stopped as she got close.

“What happened to you?” she gasped.

“Nothing important,” Ned said.

“You’re lying,” Miss Wakechild said severely. She lifted her veil and her eyes were indeed wide with horror. “Don’t stand there with a face like an artist’s smock and tell me nothing has happened.”

Ned reached for his glass. His hands were bare and now he noticed how the knuckles on both hands were red and scraped. He saw Miss Wakechild looking at them, her eyes widening.

“I didn’t say nothing. I said nothing important.” He glowered at her and took a long drink before turning his attention back to her. “There was a slight differing of opinion, but it was solved very easily.”

“With fists?” Miss Wakechild raised her eyebrows. Her lips curled with distaste. “It’s blatantly clear that you have been in a fist fight. Mr Blake, I’m very disappointed in you. I thought you were better than that!”

Ned put the glass down on the table slightly harder than he intended, causing it to make a sharp bang. Miss Wakechild jumped.