Page 4 of My Fair Lord

“Do you assume any woman who has the inclination to improve mans’ lot in life must be a starched-bloused harridan in grey? I have a good mind to leave you to your fate! Your opinions need challenging.”

“Indeed they do.” Blake grinned again. “When we get to safety, you can lecture me over the evils of drink and vice another time.”

They passed a clockmaker, a watchmaker and a police station. Somewhere in the vicinity was a school because she could hear children shouting. It was exciting to be amid the bustle. No matter where you went in Liverpool, it seemed like everyone belonged, from the dock workers who carried heavy boxes from one side of town to the other, to the shopkeepers who served their customers with a friendly smile and warm welcome. Though the assumption of a warm welcome was perhaps naïve, given their current escapade.

Blake glanced behind him occasionally. On the third turn, he stopped abruptly. Presumably he saw his pursuers because he smoothly wheeled round, directing Florence’s attention to a nearby store window. He bent his head to hers and waved his free hand, as if pointing out something for Florence’s attention. His breath was cool on her neck and Florence’s cheeks began to grow warm as the fine hairs at her nape lifted slightly, tickling her.

“What are we doing?” she whispered, sliding her eyes to look at him.

His eyes twinkled and he looked as though he was enjoying himself despite the jeopardy facing them.

“We are discussing furnishing our home as newlyweds. You’re telling me those lamps would look well in our parlour.”

“Nonsense,” Florence retorted, indicating the pair he had chosen; two plump cherubs sitting atop the oil reservoir, supporting the glass shades of a bilious yellow. “They’re far too unstable. They’d topple in a breeze. I wouldn’t gift them to my least favourite aunt!”

She caught his gleeful grin in the reflection of the window. His eyes creased again, the smile lines appearing at the edges. She had initially thought him too thin-faced to be attractive, but his zeal lit his face up.

“Excellent taste! I knew I had picked the right wife.”

“Except I’m not going to marry you,” Florence pointed out.

She looked at the window again, this time behind them to the other people in the street. Most appeared to be innocently going about their business, but one man dressed in a squashed-looking hat and sporting large whiskers was walking very slowly on the opposite pavement, looking around him. Florence tensed and looked at Blake’s reflection. He was also looking behind him.

“How long must we keep up this charade?” she whispered.

His reflected eyes met hers and he smiled reassuringly.

“Only a little further to go. Tell me, Miss Wakechild, which of these lamps would you choose since you have rejected the cherubs?”

“That one, with the square base and the purple acanthus flowers on the shade. I’d buy the pair of matching floor standing lamps too.”

“Your parlour must be bigger than mine,” Mr Blake commented.

Florence felt a blush rising. It was undoubtedly true and she wondered what he would say if she told him the house back in Philadelphia had two parlours interlinked by folding doors as well as a morning and sitting room. Her father had earned his wealth honestly, but it didn’t seem tactful to mention it.

“We’re talking pretend, aren’t we, so it can be as big as we like.”

She took Blake’s arm again and they strolled towards the Mersey.

“I do enjoy the thrill of the chase,” Blake said breezily.

“We’re the quarry not the hunters,” Florence pointed out.

“Even more thrilling!” Blake grinned, reminding Florence of the Cheshire Cat. Goblin, the enormous grey mouser that prowled around her father’s Frankford Creek factory back in Philadelphia, also sprang to mind, and once the image was there, she could not shake it. All the same, she had to agree with his assessment. Racing through the streets had been an exciting way to spend half an hour but now it would soon be over because as they rounded another corner, a forest of masts and brick storehouses that lined the landing stages came into view. They were almost at the docks, not too far from the building where Florence’s father had taken an office for the duration of his visit.

Blake’s smile vanished abruptly and he tensed. His eyes darted toward the river. He muttered something beneath his breath that Florence only half heard, but she believed it was a very rude word indeed.

“Excuse me for that, but we’re not safe yet.”

Whiskers was standing on the corner of Strand Street, looking around. Florence had just about enough time to feel smug in the knowledge that she had picked out the right man before Blake seized her hand and pulled her after him down an alley. They barged through a door and Florence found herself in a crowded pub.

More astonishing than that, she found herself in Blake’s arms, backed into a corner and pressed tightly against his chest. He was close enough to kiss her and for a couple of rapid heartbeats, she thought that might be exactly what was about to happen.

“Mr Blake!” she gasped, not knowing whether to be terrified or excited, to fight against him or submit wholeheartedly. He wasn’t looking at Florence, however, but behind her and his face had changed.

“Shhh!” Blake commanded. He pressed his lips tightly together and Florence realised a kiss was not on the cards after all.

Florence swallowed her protestations – and slight disappointment – and took a deep breath. Beneath the overpowering smell of cigarette smoke and beer that filled her nose, she caught a trace of something sweet and feminine. Cheap perfume. And it was coming from Blake’s clothing. She wasn’t the first woman he’d spent time with today, and the previous one had been much closer. She pushed him away.