Page 3 of My Fair Lord

“Miss Wakechild.”

He swept his hat off his head. “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Wakechild. Ned Blake at your service.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Mr Blake. At least, I think it is. If you aren’t a spy, why is your life in danger?” Florence asked. “You aren’t a detective, are you? Or an agitator for revolutionaries?”

He laughed. “I assume you know as much about detectives or revolutionaries as you do about spies, Miss Wakechild.”

She grinned, rather enjoying a frivolous conversation. It wasn’t very often that anyone actually talked with her about anything that she considered meaningful. “Only what I’ve read in Mr Conan Doyle’s stories. He writes about a detective who has rather glorious adventures. My sister sends me The Strand Magazine whenever she sends parcels over to us.”

“Yes, I’ve read a couple of them,” Blake said, replacing his hat. “Rather far-fetched I think, with all the secret identities and so on. Sadly, I’m nothing so interesting.”

“Why do you need me in that case?” Florence asked, feeling slightly deflated.

Blake smiled. “I may have exaggerated the danger a little. I doubt they’d go as far as killing me, though I’d definitely get a beating. My pursuers are looking for a single man not a couple. Together, we can walk right past them and they wouldn’t look twice.”

“But who arethey?” Florence unwound her arm from his. “I’m not taking another step until you tell me who is chasing you and why. I don’t believe you’re a spy, before you ask.”

“Would you believe I’m a worthless drunkard and unrepentant gambler trying to escape my creditors?” he asked.

“I’d be more inclined to believe that,” Florence retorted frankly. “Though you don’t smell like a drunkard at the moment.”

Blake’s eyebrow rose. “How wonderfully insulting of you. Are all American women as frank as you?”

She was about to reply that no, her frankness was a particular curse to her alone – according to her father – but he didn’t wait for an answer. He took her arm again and resumed walking. At the end of the road, they emerged onto Duke Street.

“If you must know, I won more than I was anticipated to at cards. Or rather, I won something I wasn’t supposed to. The organisers of the game grew suspicious at my methods. They would gladly carve their pound of flesh, which would inconvenience both myself and the recipient of my message.”

Florence hid her surprise. She hadn’t expected a working man would be able to reference Shakespeare. The English education system was better than she imagined. The cryptic reference to “something” was intriguing.

“Am I in danger?” Florence asked, glancing back over her shoulder.

Blake smiled reassuringly. He patted Florence’s hand, drawing a little closer to her side in the process. “If I thought you were at any risk, I wouldn’t have asked you to accompany me,” Blake said.

Oddly enough, this did serve to make her feel safe. Perhaps it was his size and the way he appeared to be alert for any risk that was comforting. She looked into his eyes. They seemed honest, but then how could she know? He could be a very adept confidence trickster.

“What did you win?”

Mr Blake grinned. “That’s not your business.”

“Were you cheating?”

“Absolutely not!” His brows rose skywards but she couldn’t tell if his outrage was real or pretend, so was none the wiser about whether he was telling the truth.

“I’ve been playing for years. After a while you develop an instinct for when others are, though,” he said with a wicked glint in his eye.

Being back on a busy street also helped because if she needed to, she could scream for help.

She nodded. “Very well, but I hope you will take this opportunity to reform. No more drinking and gambling. It only leads to trouble.”

“I think I am well beyond any reformation.” Blake grimaced. “And I didn’t take you for a mealy-mouthed Temperance Leaguer.”

“Why not?” Florence asked sharply.

He looked her up and down. She felt his eyes raking over her and it made her shudder with indignation. Definitely indignation.

“No wire-rimmed spectacles or severe bun, and your clothing is far too bright.”

Florence eyed him coldly. Her skirt was a vibrant cobalt blue, matched with a short jacket of yellow, embroidered with cobalt blue flowers. The advantage of being the daughter of a dye manufacturer was having access to whatever colours she wished. That didn’t mean she was too frivolous for opinions on the state of the world. As a matter of fact, she did wear spectacles, but only for reading. Anticipating a dull afternoon with Cordelia and Violet in Lewis’ tea rooms, she had concealed them at the bottom of her bag along with a copy ofLittle Lord Fauntleroy.