Page 19 of What's an Earl Gotta Do?
Anne turned in the saddle to look at him. “Am I truly having this conversation with my brothers?”
“It’s a perfectly reasonable thing to ask,” Edward said. He glared at Harrington. “Help me out, will you?”
“Oh, no. You’re doing so well.” Harrington chortled.
They had reached the turnpike. The day was beautiful, with a crisp blue sky dusted with puffy white clouds. Anne had always loved to ride, although she found so few chances to do so these days. And her brothers were the best company.
Usually.
“I think,” Edward said, “you should at least consider—"
Anne had had enough. “If you want to continue this conversation, you’ll have to catch me first. And fortunately for me, neither of you can do that.”
As she urged her mare into a gallop, she could hear her brothers behind her, laughing as they gave chase.
Chapter 6
Three hours later, Michael staggered out of a shop on Saville Row. He turned to glare at the doorway through which he had come. When next he saw Fauconbridge, he was going to give him a piece of his mind.
“Morsley?” The object of his ire had materialized there upon the pavement, along with his brother.
“What in God’s name were you thinking?” Michael burst out.
Fauconbridge’s brow wrinkled. “I don’t know what you—”
“Sending me to that—that—” Michael gestured toward the shop, unable to summon words sufficiently heinous to describe it.
“Look, Morsley, I know you’ve never much liked going to the tailor—”
“How could any man like it? It was horrific.”
“You’re blocking the pavement,” Harrington said, seizing his upper arm and towing him along.
“That Pinkerton fellow all but had a fit of vapors over my jacket,” Michael grumbled. “He went on and on and on about how he’d make me a new one straight away because he’d never ‘suffer’ me to be seen wearing something so ‘grotesque’ in public.”
“Hmm,” Fauconbridge said.
“I was tempted to tell him I wore it to a ball last night. With buckskin trousers. The only reason I didn’t is because I honestly thought he might suffer some sort of thrombosis.”
“Gallant of you,” Harrington said.
“And have you seen how tight the latest fashions are? How am I supposed to chop down a tree or paddle a canoe or field dress a moose, if I can scarcely move?”
“Conveniently,” Fauconbridge said, “in your future role as the Marquess of Redditch, you will be doing precisely none of those things.”
“There’s also a real dearth of moose in London,” Harrington observed.
“I tried to leave after that, but they wouldn’t let me. No, first I had to look at three dozen spools of identical blue fabric, then it was three dozen spools of identical black fabric, and then—well—you know. And he kept asking me all these ridiculous questions I couldn’t answer about buttons and swallowtails and something about an M-knock—”
“M-notch,” Harrington said. “It refers to the shape of the collar.”
“Why couldn’t this Pinkerton fellow just decide what was suitable?” Michael fumed. “Isn’t that what I’m paying him for? Do I look like the sort of man who knows what kind of coat to order?”
“No,” the Astley brothers replied in unison.
Michael paused long enough to narrow his eyes at the both of them. “And the worst part is, he made me promise I’d visit the shoemaker straight away. To get fitted for a pair of dancing pumps.”
Harrington steered him into a left turn. “Perhaps they’ll write an ode someday to commemorate your sacrifice.”
