Page 15 of What's an Earl Gotta Do?
Michael was proud of what he had done. Three years earlier there had been a horrific famine in Britain. When the Crown asked Michael to buy up as much Canadian wheat as he could and have it shipped back home, he had spent three exhausting months canvassing the countryside, doing nothing else. As bad as the famine had been, he knew it wasn’t boasting to say that it would have been ten times worse were it not for his efforts. He had done something important. He had made a difference. He had—
Michael’s reverie was broken by a trio of young Corinthians, staggering home still in their evening dress and smelling like a distillery. One of them lurched into Michael’s path, forcing him to leap out of the way. He narrowly missed stepping in a pile of pig excrement lying right in the middle of the pavement.
God, how he hated London. Why on earth would anyone want to live here? It was bad enough that it was noisy, crowded, and stinking. But the worst part, he thought, glaring after the three drunkards, was the triviality of it all. Michael enjoyed a night out with his friends as much as any young man. But for most men of his age and rank, that was all their lives amounted to, an endless round from the tailor—a waste of time and money, as far as Michael was concerned—to the club to some seedy gaming hell.
In Canada, Michael had felt such a sense of purpose. He could still recall his heart swelling in his chest as he watched that first ship sail away with a load of hundred-foot masts, knowing that the Royal Navy was going to be able to repair their fleet because of him.
He had received a letter of thanks from Lord Nelson himself. How could he go from that to the useless life of a young London buck?
He couldn’t.
And he wasn’t going to.
He was going back to Canada just as soon as he could, the only place on the face of this earth where he could acquit himself admirably with the skills that he had. He was going to do something important with his life. He was going to be Governor General.
He was going to make his father proud.
Everything was going to be perfect. Because this time when he sailed for Canada, he would have Anne with him.
As his wife.
Michael nodded to the butler as he entered Cranfield House, his family’s London residence on Hanover Square. “Good morning, Hoyle. Did any messages come for me while I was out?”
“Yes, my lord,” Hoyle said, presenting two letters on a silver tray, “one from Lady Wynters and another from Lord Fauconbridge.”
There was no question which one he was going to read first, but his shoulders slumped as he scanned Anne’s brief missive. He’d hoped that the morning’s shooting would be a prelude to them spending the rest of the day together, but Anne wrote that she was busy with her charity work all day and all evening.
She did suggest they go for a drive tomorrow afternoon, so at least he had that to look forward to.
Fauconbridge’s letter was a suggestion that, as he was suddenly free, he pay a visit to the tailor.
Michael groaned. He knew he needed to go. Last night no less than seven people had hinted with a remarkable lack of subtlety that his jacket did not pass muster. He had no wish to embarrass Anne on their wedding day, so he knew he’d have to do it sooner or later.
Still, visiting the tailor on his first full day in London… it felt like an ill omen.
He sighed. “Hoyle, let me have my hat again. It would appear I’m going back out.”
Chapter 5
“You’re in fine form today, Anne.”
Anne smiled at Edward as she took up the powder horn and began to reload her flintlock pistol. They were just outside of town at the home of Anne’s friend, Mrs. Wriothesley, who served as the Ladies’ Society’s treasurer. Mrs. Wriothesley had issued an open invitation for Anne and her brothers to make use of their shooting range, and they had gotten into the habit of practicing together each Wednesday morning.
“Thank you,” Anne replied.
“Not bad,” Harrington allowed.
“Not bad?” Edward said. “She’s hit every target. What more would you have her do?”
“Sure, she’s hit every target,” Harrington agreed. “But the real test is not whether you can hit a painted bull’s-eye. The real test is whether you can make the shot when everything is on the line.”
Anne groaned. “Not this again.”
“Yes,” Harrington said. “This. Again.”
“Do we have to do it this week?” Anne asked as she rammed the ball into place, perhaps a bit more forcefully than was strictly necessary.
“We will do it this week, and the week after, and the week after that, until you get it,” Harrington replied.
