Page 28 of My Fair Lord

Dottie bobbed a curtsey and left. Alfie barely had any possessions, so Florence, Blake, and the boy were not far behind. As they left the pub, Florence looked up at Blake.

“The man in question whose ring you were returning wouldn’t happen to be a Mr Van Hoon, would it?”

Blake’s eyes shot wide open and Florence knew she had guessed correctly. “What makes you say that?”

“When I saw you at the Huskisson Building, you were looking up at the windows to a lower floor than mine. Thinking of who owns offices on the third and fourth floor, I think Van Hoon is the most likely candidate to be concerned about things. I also know he has a son only a year or two older than me because I danced with them both at the ball.”

Blake’s lips twitched. “Very clever, Miss Wakechild. Are you sure you wouldn’t like to join me in my line of work?”

She felt her cheeks go red. “Mr Van Hoon senior suggested I might like to meet him with a view to matrimony. I don’t like the father, so I certainly don’t want to marry the son.”

“Why don’t you like him?”

She sucked her lip and shook her head. “He just gives me a feeling. He looks at me as if he is imagining me in my underwear. Or out of it.”

Alfie sniggered, stopping abruptly when Blake gave him a stern look.

“I don’t imagine he’s alone in that, Miss Wakechild,” Blake said with a grin that contradicted his admonishment of the child. “You’re very eye-catching. Any man with eyes and a pulse would do the same.”

“Mr Blake!” Florence’s cheeks began to smart. The heat travelled down her neck and she was thankful for the high collar of her dress that would obscure the worst of the redness. “That is a scandalous thing to say! It’s certainly not what I would imagine hearing from a member of the aristocracy, so you had better curb your language.”

Blake gave a barking laugh then grew serious. “Miss Wakechild, if you know anything about the British aristocracy, you will know it is precisely the sort of thing they would say. The aristocracy love nothing more than rutting with housemaids, seducing their brothers’ wives, or imagining their associates’ daughters in stages of undress. Their licentiousness knows no bounds. In fact, my unwillingness to grope the village girls is precisely why I would never cut it in some of the finest houses in England.”

Florence looked at him. He must be joking. Surely that sort of behaviour wasn’t common. He looked contemptuous though, and Twemlow’s assessment of him sprang to mind. She had her own reasons for disliking the institution, but Blake seemed genuinely angry.

“Are you a nobleman’s by-blow?” she asked.

Alfie gave a barking laugh and Blake coughed. “That’s not a term I’d expect a young American lady to use.”

“My brother-in-law told me it,” Florence explained. “Are you? There’s no shame in it. Your father would be at fault, not you.”

He folded his arms across his chest then laughed. “You are astonishingly straight to the point. No, I’m not. My father was many things, but as far as I know, he didn’t father bastards left, right, and centre. Only legitimate children for him.”

He offered her an arm. “Shall we go?”

She took it. As they crossed the street, a man began running towards them. He had a look of fury on his face, though as he charged, he lowered his head.

“Blake, you piece of shite. I haven’t finished with you!” he shouted.

Blake swore under his breath.

“Who else have you been fighting?” Florence demanded.

“That’s Alfie’s dad. You should go.”

“That’s Alfie’s father? But he’s…”

“White?”

Florence tailed off in the face of Blake’s grim amusement at her assumption that both Alfie’s parents were the same race. Now that he drew closer, she saw that even though this man’s skin was ruddy and his hair was blond, there was a strong resemblance to the shape of the boy’s jaw and nose.

His face looked equally bruised, Florence noted with some satisfaction. She had thought Blake’s injuries were bad, but they were nothing compared to the mess of this ogre’s face. He stopped in front of them and flung out a hand towards Alfie, who drew close to Blake.

“That’s my brat! What are you doing with him?” He flexed his hands. His knuckles glittered with heavy rings. “Come here you little turd or I’ll tan yer hide.”

Florence gasped. She had grown up in a home full of affection. Even when her newly widowed father had grown tired of the children’s bickering, he barely ever raised his voice. The thought that a parent might speak to a child in such a way was unthinkable. Though she still deplored Blake’s use of violence to solve the problem, it was hard not to internally cheer.

“Sir,” she said loudly, drawing herself up tall and stepping towards him. “Guard your language.”