Page 1 of What's an Earl Gotta Do?
Prologue
London
March 1798
* * *
Michael Cranfield leapt from the carriage before it came to a full stop in front of the white stone town house on Cavendish Square. His legs, cramped after the overnight journey, were unprepared for this sudden exertion, and he almost went sprawling face first onto the pavement. He managed to keep his feet and sprinted up the steps of the Astley family’s London residence, ignoring the footman’s bewilderment.
“Is Anne here?” he asked, panting as he crossed the threshold. “I must speak to her right away.”
An older man who had a butlerish look about him, between his ramrod-straight posture and air of silent disapproval, raised a single eyebrow. His expression was that of a man who had smelled something exceptionally unpleasant, and he seemed to be pondering which was the graver offense, the fact that Michael looked every bit as rumpled and dusty as one would expect after spending eighteen hours on the road, or that he’d had the audacity to refer to the Earl of Cheltenham’s daughter by her first name. He lifted his chin high enough that Michael could see right up his nose. “Could you possibly be referring to Lady Anne?”
“Yes—Lady Anne, of course. It’s just—I’ve known her all my life, so I—” Michael swallowed. He didn’t have time to explain. “Is she here? I need to speak with her. Urgently.”
“She is not. Perhaps you could leave your card, Mr.—”
“There isn’t time for that.” Oh, God. The most important conversation of his life, and he was going to miss her. “Where did she go?”
The butler puffed out his chest. “This is most irregular, sir. You may leave your card. If Lady Anne wishes to receive you—”
“In two hours, there is a ship sailing for Canada, and I must be on it,” Michael bit out.
The butler looked him up and down. “Rather urgent business for a man of your years. Do tell what it might be.”
“I am not at liberty to disclose it. But suffice to say, the matter is urgent enough that my father just pulled me out of Oxford.” Michael detected the tiniest sliver of interest in the butler’s stony expression. “Please, sir,” he begged. “I have to be on that ship, and I must speak to Anne before I go. I could be gone a full year, and I—I’ve never told her that I—” He swallowed, unable to believe he was admitting this to a complete stranger. “I mean, I’m fairly certain she already knows, but—” Lord, this was mortifying. The butler’s mouth was hanging open in a most unbutler-like fashion. But Michael plowed on because he had to convince the man somehow. “But I haven’t actually asked her to—to be my—”
The butler’s eyes sharpened. “You are the boy next door. Lord Morsley.”
“Yes. Yes, I am.” Michael felt his face reddening, all the way to his large, sticky-outy ears. He shouldn’t be surprised. Everyone back home in Gloucestershire seemed to know he was hopelessly in love with his best friend, that he had been for years.
But it was lowering to discover that his feelings were so openly discussed that someone had mentioned them to this man whom he had never met, who lived a hundred miles away.
At least his confession had the desired effect. “A thousand apologies, my lord. Carter!” the butler snapped at the man posted at the door. “Gather the footmen, as well as Lady Anne’s and Lady Cheltenham’s maids.”
“Yes, sir!” Carter said, already sprinting toward the back of the house.
It was quickly ascertained that Anne and her mother had gone out to pay a round of social calls. Nobody knew their precise itinerary, although between Yarwood (this proved to be the butler’s name) and the ladies’ maids, they were able to put together a list of several dozen possibilities.
Footmen were dispatched at a run to inquire at the houses on the list. Michael was pacing past a drawing room when a gentleman with short brown hair peppered with flecks of grey appeared in the doorway. Michael started, and the man laughed.
“I’m sorry. I probably should have made myself known earlier. I’ve been waiting for Lord Cheltenham.” He extended a hand. “I’m the Earl of Wynters.”
“Lord Wynters.” Michael pumped his hand. “I am the Earl of Morsley.”
“Come, sit.” Lord Wynters gestured to a chair before the fire. He strolled over to a decanter in the corner and filled two glasses. “I daresay you could use a spot of this,” he said, handing one to Michael.
Michael was raising the glass to his lips when a great clattering sound almost made him spill his drink. It proved to be Lord Wynters’s walking stick, which he had knocked over as he resumed his seat on the sofa. As the earl leaned it against the couch once more, Michael noticed that the shiny black lacquered stick had a silver handle shaped like an icicle.
“I could not help but overhear your predicament,” Lord Wynters said.
Michael cringed. “I… er…”
The earl laughed. “Come now, there’s no need to feel embarrassed. I, too, was once”—he paused, studying Michael assessingly—“seventeen?”
“Nineteen,” Michael said, unable to keep a hint of defensiveness from his voice.
“Nineteen. My apologies.” Lord Wynters sipped his drink. “Lord Morsley—that would make you Redditch’s heir.”
