Page 78 of My Fair Lord

“I can bring it tonight,” Florence said.

Ned thanked her. They said their goodbyes then parted.

He walked back to his hotel at speed, the exercise not doing any good in shaking off his feeling of turmoil. The attorney might have been looking for Mr Colling, but Ned didn’t truly believe that. Lawyers didn’t mix up earls and viscounts. If he had said he was looking for an earl, then an earl it would be, and Ned had a growing feeling of certainty that the earl in question was the Earl of Ayesgarth.

In which case he was looking for the man named Benedict Fitton, and Benedict Fitton was currently living under the alias of Ned Blake.

ChapterTwenty-Two

There was no question of arriving at the ball with Florence, as much as Ned would have liked to see her and ask if she had brought the card from the attorney’s clerk. His forbearance had been greatly tested ever since Florence lit the fuse that crawled slowly but inescapably towards the bomb beneath Ned, without even realising what she’d done.

Before that, however, came another moment of truth. Would he be able to pass as a viscount convincingly enough to fool Clayton Wakechild? He lingered in the East Vestibule of the Faulkner mansion where guests were arriving on foot, having left their carriages in the outer courtyard and greeting each other with excitement.

He caught a few glances in his direction and stood slightly taller, trying to exude a sense of mysterious confidence and elegance. Deep down, he had no fears of failing to pass for an aristocrat, though he considered it the height of irony that while birth was on his side, he had been exiled from his true social circle for so many years that he had never learned to move within it.

His clothes were probably the finest garments he’d ever worn. The black tailcoat was impeccably tailored to fit his frame and beneath it he wore a crisp white dress shirt with a high collar and a pleated front. A black bow tie – he gave thanks to Lord Griggs’ valet who had patiently taught him the technique of tying it – added a touch of sophistication to his ensemble. His trousers were a deep shade of charcoal grey and he carried a black silk top hat in his hand, which he tipped ever so slightly in greeting to the other guests who made their curiosity more obvious. By the time he saw the Griggs party arriving, he was thoroughly enjoying himself.

The instant he saw Florence, his entire body became alert and he had to remind himself to breathe. Her hair looked like amber, with tendrils of curls framing her face and cascading down her neck. She wore delicate gold earrings with green stones that shimmered in the light and a matching necklace. Both called attention to the grace of her neck and decolletage. Her dress was pale green silk with a skirt that flowed like water as she moved, catching the light from the gas lamps in a way that made it look like it glowed from within and possessed more hues than it possibly could have.

She was stunning.

She looked like a goddess walking among men.

She looked terrified.

Ned’s belly jerked with a sense of protectiveness. He almost began walking towards her, so great was the urge to shield her from whatever was causing her anxiety, but he stopped himself. He knew the plan. They would find each other inside approximately half an hour into the event, then Lord Griggs would perform the introduction to Mr Wakechild. Curbing his urge to be close to her, Ned followed the throng of guests into the North Hall, showing the stiff gilt-edged invitation to one of the white-gloved footmen.

The Faulkners had spared no expense when it came to decorating for this event. Everywhere Ned looked, there were intricate carvings and ornate furniture that mimicked stately old English houses from centuries gone by. The oil paintings on the walls, the sculptures in discreet alcoves that lined the long hallway, and the gas lamps that glowed from sconces set at intervals of every six feet along the walls spoke of wealth and privilege which most of the viscounts and earls in Britain could only dream of. It was no wonder the British aristocracy were as keen to access this wealth as the Americans were to access their history. Ned thought disdainfully of the echoey rooms and narrow Elizabethan windows of the house he’d grown up in. What would his late father have thought of this splendour?

The receiving line was edging forward rapidly. According to Florence, Sapphire Faulkner liked things to proceed briskly as she viewed the formalities as a waste of dancing time. By the time Ned reached the head of the line, she had presumably greeted all her close friends and the principal visitors. She looked bored and barely glanced at the trailing line of less significant guests who murmured their thanks to her and her husband.

Ned passed into the ballroom. It boasted a large floor wide enough for four sets of couples to dance down. Three large chandeliers hung overhead, casting an inviting glow over everything below them. A full orchestra played at an alcove raised at one end. Currently they were playing an old-fashioned waltz, but as far as Ned could tell, nobody was dancing. Now the formalities had been observed, the guests were free to mingle, and gossiping and eating was the order of the day.

The Faulkners had arranged for ice creams and sherbets to be placed in twisted silver stands that looked like trees, with branches holding the individual bowls. Ned accepted a glass dish of strawberry ice cream from a waiter. A memory echoed. Last time he had been at a ball, he had been the waiter and he’d spent that evening looking for Florence too. It was that night which started the whole madcap scheme.

He finished his ice, handed the bowl to a waiter, then went to find a place to wait for Florence. She joined him within twenty minutes. She stopped dead as she approached him and took a step back. Her eyes grew wide and her cheeks pink.

“Ned! You look…”

He stepped towards her and took her hand, raising it to his lips, remembering that they had been kissing her only a few hours earlier.

“So do you.”

They stood opposite each other, neither quite sure about the familiar stranger.

“Are we going ahead?” he asked.

“Of course. Annoyingly, I have to dance with a few people early on. My friend Miss Faulkner apparently got hold of my dance card because she’s filled it in. You’re on there, though.”

She twirled the little paper book that hung from her right wrist on a loop of silken ribbon. Last year, the fashion had been for silver chains, but Ned preferred this less affected decoration. She gave him a warm smile but her brows were furrowed. She was playing with a ring on her finger, rubbing her thumb over the stone in smaller circles around the setting. She probably had no idea she was even doing it, but it was clear to Ned that she was nervous and presumably found the gesture calming.

“Don’t worry, I’ll remember how to dance,” Ned assured her.

The right side of her mouth switched into something that was a bit more of a genuine smile.

“I know you will. You’re an excellent partner. I’m sorry, Ned. I should be the one reassuring you, not the other way around. I have absolute faith that you can carry this off perfectly. I just find social engagements this large rather overwhelming. I always have. As they go on, the noises sound more acute, the scents become more overpowering. Everything feels more vibrant.”

She looked down at her hands and adjusted the seams of her gloves, even though the white silk was perfectly smooth from fingertip to elbow.