Two days later Alfred had settled in more or less. He was certainly feeling more comfortable in his new surroundings. He no longer startled at Victor silently slinking into the room he was in and suddenly speaking, and now the maid, who as it turned out went by the name of Charlotte, had taken to bobbing a quick curtsey before she made her rapid departure of whichever room Alfred had happened to venture into.

"Sir, a Lord Arthur Kirkland is here to see you," Victor announced from the doorway of the study which Alfred was sat in; he wasn't much of a reader but he'd been browsing the large bookshelves just to see if there was anything of interest.

He's a Lord? Alfred wondered why he hadn't been informed of this sooner, "Thank you, Victor."

The butler nodded before leaving the room and returning with the man in question. Arthur – or was he supposed to call him Lord Arthur now? – briefly gave him a tired and vaguely amused glance before sitting in one of the two armchairs by the fireplace. Alfred assumed that he was supposed to join him and so took the other, mildly surprised that despite it being his house the other had walked in and sat down of his own accord. Still, he reasoned, he did pay for the house.

"Would you care for a drink, sir?" Victor offered from his default position in front of the doorway.

"No-no, I shan't be staying for long," Arthur said dismissively.

Victor turned his attention to Alfred, "Sir?"

He shook his head, "No thanks."

The butler nodded before departing.

Alfred wasn't sure how to begin the conversation having been thrown off by the grand title so he decided to wait for the other to speak and let the silence hang in the air; it danced with dust motes in the sunlight.

"I have arranged for you to play at Wilton's Music Hall tomorrow evening," Arthur said by way of introduction.

"Wilton's?" Alfred was shocked that he would be playing somewhere so grand so soon.

"Yes. Think of it as an upscale barn dance," Arthur said, and though he kept a straight face the amusement he got from making quips about the contrast in cultures was visible in his eyes.

"So, what do I do?" he felt like an idiot for asking but was too preoccupied with the enormous amount of pressure he was under to make a good first impression to consider the impression he was currently making on Arthur.

"You wear a suit, you play the piano, then you spend the remainder of the night chatting to utter morons," he stood up suddenly, "I'm afraid I must be going,"

"Oh, okay," Alfred said dazedly, also standing up as it was customary after all.

"I shall see you at around eight o'clock."

"Around?" Surely there must be a set time? He was performing after all.

"Punctuality is the thief of time," Arthur said as he walked into the hallway and took his hat and coat from Victor who must have been standing there the whole time, "I myself am always late on principal."

"Huh…" Alfred considered this. It seemed logical, did it not? As he was new in London perhaps it would be a good idea to follow the example set to him, and being a Lord as well as a naturally commanding man what better example to follow than that set by Arthur.

Arthur set his hat on his head and nodded, "Good day."

Victor had already opened the door and so he left smoothly, the butler closing it shut behind him. Alfred had begun to suspect that he had some sort of sixth sense as to people's comings and goings, or perhaps it was simply a skill that all men of his profession possessed. Regardless, it was still mildly disconcerting the way he was always primed for any situation. Perhaps if a burglar walked in he would already be positioned behind the door with a frying pan or something of the likes.

Alfred stood in the hallway frowning slightly at the prospect of going to the event Arthur had organised, "Do I even have a suit?" he thought aloud.

"I shall see to it at once, sir."

He watched Victor stride up the stairs purposefully yet somehow in near silence, which was quite a feat as Alfred had yet to scale them without making a complete racket. Honestly Alfred could have easily looked through his clothes himself, and he wasn't really asking that anyone else would do it for him, but at least Victor wouldn't end up throwing shirts and trousers across the room as he searched.

. . .

The moment Alfred had set foot inside Wilton's he had already felt the preying eyes of the upper classes. Finely dressed women and formally dressed men stood in clusters of varying combination, being slowly choked by their corsets and bowties as they sipped from champagne flutes and talked nonsense. In a matter of minutes they would be seated in what he imagined was the largest hall he'd ever seen in his life, and he would be the centre of attention.

Confused as to what exactly he was supposed to be doing Alfred approached one of the doormen, "Excuse me, my name is Alfred F. Jones – I'm supposed to be playing here tonight?"

It was obvious that the man was surprised by his accent; he doubted many non-British people came to things like this, "When it is time for you to play your host, Lord Arthur Kirkland," he said the name as if it was synonymous to 'almighty God', "Will announce it. You are then to make your way to the stage and ascend the stairs to you left; both before and after your performance you must take an obligatory bow," Alfred felt that he was being patronized but brushed it off, "Then following your final bow you must descend the stairs to the right of the stage and wait."

Alfred nodded, "Got it – thanks."

"Oh dear me, no," A large balding man with mutton chop side burns paused briefly as he entered the venue, looking him up and down like some sort of cow at a country fair, "Shabby!"

Puzzled Alfred looked down at himself – he looked fine as far as he was concerned. It was the best suit he had, but he'd had it since he stopped growing so unsurprisingly something or rather must have changed in fashion. He mentally shrugged and scoped out the room but Arthur was nowhere to be seen.

Then all of a sudden he appeared out of nowhere onto the stage. There was an immediate hush at his sudden presence, although he hadn't needed to say a word; he was naturally commanding.

"Ladies and gentlemen, may I present to you a great contradiction to the slack-jawed imbeciles we view all Americans to be – well perhaps not quite a contradiction," This earned a laugh from the crowd, although it was unsure as to whether they actually found him funny or just felt obligated to laugh due to his status, "Alfred F. Jones."

Somehow it seemed that Arthur knew exactly where he was as he made direct eye-contact with Alfred from all the way across the room in a manner that seemed to say "go on: show them" at the same time as warning him profusely not to mess this up.

The crowd turned in the direction of Arthur's gaze and immediately picked Alfred out from the others, politely applauding as Alfred carefully made his way through the crowd and ascended the steps specifically to the left.

He wasn't really sure what to do under the gaze of so many eloquent pairs of eyes and so he followed to doorman's instructions exactly: he bowed, which caused the audience to cease their applause in anticipation, and then he sat down at the piano and began to play. It then became apparent to him that he probably should have decided which songs he was going to play before hand, but luckily his hands were a few steps ahead of his thoughts and he unconsciously began to play Chopin.

. . .

After he had finished playing the doorman's voice returned to his head again: Alfred bowed, went down the stairs to the right of the stage, and waited at the bottom, albeit feeling more like a dog tied up outside a shop than he'd like to. The feeling didn't last too long though as almost immediately he was approached by several small groups of women and men, all talking at once so he could only smile and nod politely as soon as he'd established the general gist of what they said was that they enjoyed his playing. There was an immediate change in atmosphere as soon as Arthur came over, in that they stopped jabbering and took it in turns to pay both Alfred and Arthur complements.

There was champagne and a lot of small talk – the sort of conversation where you don't really need to listen to know how to respond. It seemed to be a very English thing to discuss detached subjects such as fashion and the weather for extended periods of time, but despite the general lack of personality he got from people Alfred much to his surprise still enjoyed himself. He was certainly adapting well to England, to the point where everyone seemed to have forgotten that he was American. Well, everyone except for Arthur who brought up Alfred's roots almost incessantly and with an equal ammount of amusment every time, but somehow it seemed that he was exempt from everyone else. Yes, Arthur truely was a man of his own stature.