Page 40 of My Fair Lord

It was altogether the most marvellous morning. They failed to win a coconut by knocking down balls, though they saw Alfie win three in succession before the vendor stopped him playing for a fourth time – a childhood most likely spent throwing stones at stray dogs and harbour rats, which accounted for his deadly accuracy, according to Mr Blake. They listened to the display of music from a steam-powered organ with moving animals, drank ginger beer, and had great fun on the busiest attraction of the event: a wondrous mechanised roundabout of wooden horses, each of which moved up and down as if they were truly galloping. As Florence accepted Mr Blake’s hands to help her slide off the painted saddle, a raucous booing and cheering fill the air.

“What’s that?” she asked in alarm.

Mr Blake peered over the crowds. “The prize fighter. Let’s go look.”

They walked towards the sounds. A square of grass in front of the inn had been roped off, and three sides were surrounded by people watching. A painted sign proclaimed that anyone who lasted in the ring with Maximillian Rafferty until the bell rang would receive their money back, plus five guineas. A burly, bald man who was naked to the waist and the butcher from the next village over were preparing to spar. The bell rang and to loud cheers, the butcher darted forward, one fist raised to shield his face, the other aiming for the fighter’s belly. Maximillian Rafferty – assuming this was he – stood his ground, a wide grin showing far too few teeth.

“That’s absolutely barbaric!” Florence exclaimed.

“Oh I don’t know.” Mr Blake narrowed his eyes and looked at the muscular fighter. “The rounds last only three minutes and it isn’t in his interest to do anyone a lasting injury. So long as you’re quick on your feet and keep out of reach, I don’t see why it wouldn’t be an easy way of making money.”

“Don’t you dare even think about that!” Florence exclaimed, rounding on him with her arms folded.

“I wasn’t.” His face took on an expression of injured innocence.

“You’re lying!” Florence replied sharply.

Blake confirmed it with a grin. “Don’t worry, I’m more than capable of dodging a fist if I did decide to take my turn in the ring. Though your concern for my welfare is touching.”

The butcher clearly wasn’t capable of dodging because at that moment, a loud grunt shot from his throat as he took an elbow between the shoulder blades and dropped to his knees. Florence winced and looked away as he struggled to rise to his feet.

“I’m not concerned for your welfare. I’m concerned that I won’t be able to produce a viscount for my father if you’re laid up in your bed with a broken arm or cracked skull!”

“Oh I don’t suppose I’d get that badly injured,” Blake mused, rubbing his forefinger against his temple, as if probing for an injury already. “Besides, we have another few weeks and you can always tell him I fell from my horse as we hunted on my estate. That would be a respectable way of doing myself an injury.”

Before Florence could demonstrate her appalled response, Cordelia swept through the crowd and took her by the arm.

“Florence, there you are. I’ve been looking everywhere for you! Good afternoon, Mr Blake. How do you do?”

Mr Blake bowed, greeting Lady Griggs with perfect manners. Florence would have approved if she hadn’t been so concerned that he was about to step into the ring and do himself an injury. The butcher had surrendered to his inevitable defeat and was staggering from the ring to sympathetic catcalls.

“Florence, why are you still here and not preparing for Lord Stretford’s arrival? It’s almost two. We need to go back and dress for the afternoon,” Cordelia said.

Florence looked at the clock on the church tower and her stomach dropped. Where had the time gone?

“I’ll come now, Cordelia,” she said. She fixed Mr Blake with a stern look. “What you do is up to you, but I would really prefer that while you are in my employ, you do not damage yourself or put my wager in jeopardy.”

“Florence, you do worry unnecessarily,” Cordelia said as they walked away. “Men, especially young virile ones such as Mr Blake, are like puppies and need to get rid of their excess humours. They show off to their friends and strut around like gamecocks. Look, my husband’s valet is about to try his luck. I’d stay and watch if I had time.”

“Twemlow won’t mind if he gets a beating?” Florence asked, now more aghast than ever.

Cordelia patted her arm. “It will only be a mild one. Mr Rafferty understands exactly what to do and where to hit them so they feel brave for trying. Twemlow wouldn’t let him come every year if there was any real danger. You don’t really understand men, do you?”

Florence shook her head, unable to argue with that. There was logic in Cordelia’s words, even though the whole thing seemed ridiculous. She looked back over her shoulder. Mr Blake was no longer standing where she could see him. She hoped he had gone off to find other amusements and would have the sense not to risk it. As she walked, she couldn’t help but feel that something was changing inside her that made it hard for her to leave the company of Mr Blake behind. For now, she had more pressing demands upon her time: the visit from the potential husband.

On reflection, she would rather square up to Maximillian Rafferty herself.

ChapterTwelve

Ned walked around the entire fair once until he was sure that Miss Wakechild had definitely gone back with her sister to Goreswarth Chase. He spotted Alfie running after a football with the other stable boys and a handful of other children from the estate. He was laughing and jostling and looked to be having the time of his life. He seemed to have grown, too, though perhaps it was not walking with a nervous stoop that did it.

Ned smiled to himself. Even if Alfie had to return to life in Liverpool with his father, he would return with a month or more’s worth of better food in his belly and greater confidence. It was Ned’s great wish that he might not have to return at all. It might be possible to persuade Lord Griggs to employ the boy permanently. He was quick and bright, and Ned saw no reason why he might not do very well for himself. Not everyone was given that kind of chance and he hoped Alfie would be sensible enough to take it if it was offered.

Deep in thought, he walked back to the ring to find Maximillian Rafferty. He hesitated by the sign and took a deep breath, not at all sure that this was the right thing to do. There were probably other ways in which he could suggest to Miss Wakechild that he had already encountered Lord Stretford and therefore the ruse wouldn’t work, but a black eye would be a convincing reason to avoid company.

It was a dirty trick to play on Miss Wakechild, but it was the only way Ned could think of to get out of meeting Stretford. If he could have thought of a different way, he would have done, but nothing had presented itself.

He knew he was telling himself a lie. He wanted to fight. He didn’t relish the thought of getting beaten because of the pain that would result, but he wanted that feeling of his muscles burning and relying on his wits, speed, and strength to keep him sharp.