Page 15 of My Fair Lord

Clayton turned around slowly and shook his head sorrowfully.

“I imagine you are, Florence. Nevertheless, your words were hurtful. You have a tendency to speak too forthrightly, even for my considerably broad-minded tastes. An unintentional wound can cut as deeply as a deliberate one.”

He left her alone.

With the memory of that difficult conversation repeating itself in acute detail inside her head, Florence had no urge to venture further from her suite of rooms than to the almost identical suite on the floor below, which Cordelia and Twemlow were occupying.

“I’ve disappointed him,” Florence sighed, picking at her scone. “I need to behave with dignity or I’ll never find an earl who will take me on, and it matters so much to him.”

“Yes, it does seem unfair that we’re expected to display every grasp of etiquette while they can behave as they choose,” Cordelia said darkly, eyeing Twemlow who was lounging on the settee in the bay window, smoking his pipe.

“We know the rules,” he said with a shrug. “We’ve known them since birth, that’s why we get to break ’em.”

Cordelia glared at him. He blew her a kiss.

“You’ll never catch me addressing a lord as ‘Sir’ on a first meeting, my beloved.”

“That’s my point. It’s just rules. You even have books listing them,” Florence said. “I believe anyone could be taught to show the same manners a baron displays. Why, the waiter I spoke with last night had enough civility that even he could have passed a quarter of an hour in a drawing room without his background being called into question. He was much nicer to talk to than that awful viscount who kept telling me about breeding horses. Swap clothes and you’d never tell the difference between them.”

She paused with her teacup halfway to her mouth as her brain fizzled with an idea.

“Oh my!”

“Are you ill, Florrie?” Twemlow asked.

Florence slowly lowered her teacup. “No. I have just had the most marvellous idea of how to prove to Daddy that it is all completely arbitrary.” She looked at her sister and brother-in-law. Her mood, which had been skulking in the depths of despondency, soared. She stood, hands by her side as if she were declaiming from a podium.

“I shall find a common man and transform him into a fine lord.”

“I think creating new peers is beyond even your considerable talent.” Cordelia laughed.

“Of course I don’t mean to create a real one,” Florence said. “But that’s my point really. These titles were created centuries ago. I propose to create a counterfeit viscount. Then I’ll present him to Daddy at a party or something and show him just how silly the determination to marry us to titles is. We shall train him in how to behave, clothe him appropriately, and teach him all the right points of etiquette.”

Twemlow gave a barking laugh. “Do you think that’s all there is to it, Florrie? Cutlery and clothing? You will never succeed in a hundred years.”

“Oh do be quiet, Twem,” Cordelia said. She walked over and sat on the chair beside him and flicked the end of her shawl at his face. “I’ve seen you wipe your nose on your cuff when you think no one is looking, and you told me after we married that your grandfather barely knew how to count past fifty until he was nineteen. If you are our benchmark, I’m sure whatever chimney sweep or stevedore Florence picks will have no problem.”

She bent over and kissed his forehead. He grabbed her around the waist and pulled her onto his lap.

“Very true, my dear. Go back far enough and our ancestors were throwing bones to dogs and eating off the tip of a knife.”

Watching the affectionate bickering, a warm glow spread over Florence. Their marriage has been one of practicality. A title for Cordelia and a welcome injection of cash into the Griggs estate in Cheshire, where the mill owners and tenants were struggling to pay the increased land rent. Still, it had turned out that the pair were well matched: both even-tempered with a love of gossip and social engagements. It occurred to Florence for the first time that such a match would not be unbearable if she was forced into it. But how lucky would she have to be? It was not something she preferred to leave to fate.

“I don’t mean to pick a chimney sweep or a stevedore,” she said. “Having to educate somebody to read and write or spell would be too hard. A man of the middle classes or a worker in an office of some sort would be best. I bet it would only take a few months.”

“Suddenly a betting woman, are you!” Twemlow swung his feet to the ground and pushed his considerable frame upright, upending his wife in the process. “If you can find a man, then I will place a wager. What do you say to a hundred dollars that you can’t create a viscount before you leave England?”

Florence hesitated. A hundred dollars was an awful lot of money, but if she won that amount back from Twemlow, just think what she might do with it. She could bring to mind three or four worthy causes off the top of her head. Of course, the main prize would be the victory of being able to prove that a title did not make the man and that a veneer of respectability was enough to make him attractive to the old money who guarded the doors to society with greater ferocity than Cerberus in Hades.

Twemlow grinned at Cordelia. “And what about you, my pet? Do you think your sister is apt to fail or succeed? Will you stand with or against your husband in this?”

Cordelia kissed him on the cheek. “As much as a wife should obey and support her husband in all matters, I know how formidable my sister can be. I will remain impartial, but I will help pick the time and place for the hoax to be tested. There must be a ball coming up.”

“I wouldn’t want to embarrass him publicly,” Florence cautioned. What had started out as an idle thought was rapidly becoming reality and she’d need to give it careful consideration.

“Florence, do you have anyone in mind?” Twemlow asked.

“I believe I do,” Florence said thoughtfully. Until that moment, she hadn’t admitted to herself that it was Mr Blake’s general demeanour that had made her think of the reckless scheme, but of course it was him she had in mind. She would have to pay him, of course, but he’d proven he was happy to take on all sorts of commissions and she needed to contact him anyway to tell him what she had discovered about Miss Halliwell.