Page 61 of My Fair Lord

“Why don’t we bring matters to a quick conclusion. Give me back the brooch Miss Evans gave to you.”

“If she wants it, she just has to take a quick trip to my cabin and retrieve it,” Agosti said, spreading his hands out, palms up.

Ned’s hackles rose. Dottie would be safer walking into a room full of wasps while covered in jam. He reached out before Mr Agosti could react, seized him by the lapels of his jacket, and pulled him to his feet. He had intended to just retrieve the brooch, but now he decided that wasn’t enough and Mr Agosti should be squeezed for every penny he had.

“I could take you out with one blow if I choose to.” He let go when the valet’s eyes filled with fear. “But right now, I don’t have the inclination to scuff my knuckles. Why don’t we play for it? I have the rest of the day free. The brooch as your stake and five pounds as mine.”

“It isn’t worth that,” Agosti scoffed.

“It is to Miss Evans,” Ned said.

“So to Miss Wakechild and therefore to you,” Agosti sneered, raising an eyebrow.

Ned didn’t bother correcting the assumption. It would have been better that he hadn’t invoked Florence at all, but it was too late for that. Now he had to concentrate on winning. He sat down and reached for the deck of cards.

“Gentlemen, who is in?” he asked.

He couldn’t spend the day with Florence as he wished, so parting this arrogant fool from his money would be the next best thing.

* * *

It had come as something of a relief to Florence when Dottie had returned with a reply from Ned suggesting they did not set a time until she was feeling better – so why she had flung herself onto her bunk with a temper was something she couldn’t understand.

She’d scandalised herself with what she had asked Ned to do. She felt embarrassed and ashamed for suggesting something so outrageous. She had never expected Ned to agree, but his honourable refusal to do it made her feel even worse about the situation. She swallowed, remembering his explanation of why the time had been right when he had finally kissed her. He’d been so kind and such a gentleman when she had been shamelessly uninhibited.

She was still dwelling on Ned’s absence the following morning. She’d almost poured her coffee into the milk jug instead of her cup and dropped an earring into her pot of cold cream. Dottie had to ask her twice whether she wanted the pearl-tipped hairpins or the blue enamel comb shaped like a butterfly to go with her dress for the Captain’s Dinner on the final night of the crossing.

She barely cared, if she was being honest. The dinner was for first-class passengers only and would be a glamorous affair. She would rather have spent the evening sitting quietly alone, or with her family. Or with Ned.

At least Dottie seemed happier than she had done for a while. Since the second morning, she had been drooping and looked like she was crying most of the day, even though she denied it vigorously. Florence assumed she was having a bad time of the month, but now she seemed happier. Her nose was no longer red and she was wearing her pretty cameo brooch at her neck.

Florence didn’t insist on her maid wearing an apron or cap. It made her look too much like the parlourmaid. As far as Florence was concerned, if Dottie was smartly turned out, she could wear a dress of whatever colour she chose as well as a discreet item of jewellery.

“I’m sorry, Dottie. I’m being far too indecisive,” she said. She forced her mind onto the outfit, eventually making a decision and pointing to the comb.

“It’s good to see you looking happy again. Between my sister and Mr Blake both confining themselves to their cabins for much of the time, it hasn’t been a particularly fun voyage.”

She stared out of the window.

“Would you like me to take a note to Mr Blake today?” Dottie asked.

Florence avoided Dottie’s eyes in the mirror. She hadn’t seen Ned since their kiss, and in her mind it had grown to something of far more significance than it should warrant. He had probably forgotten it already and she was avoiding him for no reason. He must have experienced a hundred better kisses.

A thousand.

She closed her eyes, feeling butterflies in her stomach. The warmth of his lips against hers had ignited something inside of her that she had never experienced before—an intense passion that had consumed every inch of her being and left no room for doubt or fear. She hadn’t wanted to stop. She wanted to do it again and at the same time she never wanted to do it again in case she found it too irresistible. It was hopeless to imagine a future in which they could be together, but when she had laid her head on the pillow the night before, she’d been beset by dreams of being Mrs Blake and living in a small house somewhere quiet within reach of Cordelia’s home.

She realised Dottie was still waiting for an answer to her question.

“No, I think not,” she decided. “Perhaps after lunch I shall feel differently but not for now. I will let Mr Blake recover in peace. You may have the next hour to yourself. I’m sure you have things you would like to be doing. If I want you, I will ring down to the servant’s saloon.”

“Thank you, Miss.”

Dottie skipped off. Florence picked up a pot of beeswax and began massaging it into her fingernails. She suspected Dottie had found a young man to spend some time with. It would be nice if Dottie could find somebody to walk out with, although on balance, that would be no good for Florence if Dottie married and left her. Something scratched against her thumb and she realised she had a hangnail. Tutting in annoyance, she looked for her nail file but couldn’t find it. She knew Dottie always kept a pair of scissors in the sewing box so opened the box to get them. Her eye fell on something.

A monogrammed handkerchief, neatly folded. She recognised it at once. It belonged to Ned. Florence drew it out, wondering why it was in the sewing box. She held it out and inspected it. It was not torn, and the embroidered monogram did not need touching up, so why did Dottie have it in her possession? She tried to put it out of her mind but could not ignore the horrible suspicion that the young man Dottie was interested in was Ned.

Was that why Dottie had been so keen to take a note?